The Fireworks That Called It Back

Table of Contents

The July 4th Fireworks: July

The town of Harrowsfield was known for two things—its annual July 4th fireworks, and the July family. Every year, people came from nearby cities just to witness the explosions of color above the lake. But this year felt different. Not because of the fireworks, but because the July family had gone completely silent.

"Did you hear anything from them?" Clara whispered, sipping her iced tea as she watched the sunset from the porch.

"No," replied her husband, Ben. "Not since last month. And they never miss a Fourth of July."

The July family—Martha, her two sons Peter and Eli, and their grandfather Thomas—had been part of the town’s fabric for generations. Martha was in charge of organizing the fireworks display, while Thomas used to tell ghost stories to children waiting on the grass with glow sticks and popcorn.

But this year, their house on the hill was dark. No banners. No cars. No laughter. Just silence.

On the morning of July 4th, Clara decided to check on them.

"You can't just walk up there," Ben warned. "What if they’re just taking a break?"

"It’s been weeks, Ben," she said. "And something doesn’t feel right."

Clara walked up the gravel path with a mix of curiosity and unease. The air felt heavier the closer she got. The gate was unlocked. The porch swing creaked in the wind. She knocked.

No answer.

She tried the door. It opened.

"Hello?" she called, stepping inside. The house smelled like ash and something else... something metallic.

The living room was untouched, but the fireplace was filled with burnt pages—scraps of what looked like journals. One caught her eye. The corner still bore the name "Peter July."

Suddenly, a loud pop echoed from upstairs. Clara froze. Another pop, sharper this time. Not fireworks. Gunfire?

She turned around—just in time to see Peter standing at the top of the stairs, holding a sparkler in one hand and a hunting rifle in the other.

"Clara?" he said, voice shaky. "You shouldn't be here."

"What happened? Where's your family?"

He walked down slowly, sparkler fizzling.

"It started with the firework designs," he whispered. "Grandpa Thomas... he found something strange buried in the workshop. It looked like an old rocket shell, but carved... like ancient. He said it whispered."

Clara stared at him, not sure if he was joking. His eyes were red-rimmed.

"Then what?" she asked.

"We lit it by accident. Thought it was a dud from last year. But once it exploded... something came out. Something that doesn’t belong here."

Clara took a step back. "Peter, are you okay?"

He looked toward the backyard. "They’re gone, Clara. All of them. One by one. And tonight, it’s coming back. It feeds on light, noise... celebration."

From the distance, they heard a low, rumbling boom. The town’s firework rehearsal.

Peter looked terrified. "You have to stop them. Before it wakes up fully."

Before Clara could respond, something slammed against the back door. A shadow flickered past the window, too fast to identify.

Peter handed her the rifle. "If I don’t make it, you tell them. Don't let them launch the finale."

"What’s wrong with the finale?"

"It’s a beacon."

Clara ran. She didn’t stop until she reached the sheriff’s office.

"Please, you have to cancel the show!" she shouted.

Sheriff Monroe raised an eyebrow. "Clara, are you drunk? You know we’ve sold hundreds of tickets. It’s the biggest event of the year."

She tried to explain, but all she got were patronizing smiles. She left, heart pounding, unsure of what to do next. That night, as the sky turned purple with dusk, Clara sat by the lake, watching as families gathered, laughing, oblivious.

She wasn’t alone for long.

A teenage boy approached her, holding a half-melted flashlight. "You're Clara, right? Peter told me to find you. He said you’d know what to do."

Clara narrowed her eyes. "Who are you?"

"Isaac. I live next door to the Julys. I saw the thing—whatever it is. I think it took my dog. My mom said it was coyotes, but coyotes don’t melt plastic."

Clara stood. "Then you’re helping me stop this."

At 9:00 PM, the crowd gathered at the lakeside. Laughter and music filled the air. Vendors sold cotton candy and patriotic hats. No one noticed the clouds above shifting unnaturally.

Clara stood behind the crowd, rifle hidden under her coat, her eyes locked on the fireworks rig. Beside her, Peter suddenly appeared.

"You made it," he said.

"They won’t listen," she replied.

Peter looked up. "Then we have no choice."

As the first firework launched, the sky exploded in color—and with it came something else. A rip in the clouds, like torn paper. Something slithered through.

Screams broke out as the air turned electric. Lights flickered. The second firework exploded, and the creature grew clearer—tentacled, eyeless, shifting constantly like it was made of smoke and teeth.

Peter turned to Clara. "The finale’s rigged on a timer. We have five minutes."

They sprinted toward the control panel behind the grandstand. A technician tried to stop them, but Clara raised the rifle.

"Move!"

She reached the main switch, but it was fused shut—melted by heat not of this world. The creature roared overhead. Peter shouted, "There’s another way. The shells. If we soak them, they won’t fire."

They ran to the firework crates and began pouring water bottles, soda, anything liquid they could find onto the remaining canisters. People were panicking now, running in every direction. The sky cracked open again.

One final shell launched—too late.

Peter tackled Clara, pushing her to the ground as the sky burst into a red and white bloom. The beacon was lit.

Everything went quiet.

The creature paused... then twisted itself back into the rip in the clouds, vanishing without a sound. The tear sealed behind it.

The wind stopped. The lights came back on.

Peter sat up, trembling. "It... didn’t stay."

Clara looked at him, breathing hard. "Why?"

He smiled faintly. "Because we didn’t cheer."

The crowd stood stunned, silent. For the first time in town history, there was no applause for the fireworks.

The next morning, the July house was empty again. No sign of Peter. No rifle. Just a burnt journal page nailed to the front door:

"Do not celebrate what you do not understand."

Later that summer, Clara drove out to the lake again. The grass had grown taller, wildflowers blooming in the absence of footsteps. The town had quietly decided not to hold fireworks next year. There was no official reason—just a shared unease no one could explain.

Isaac had stopped speaking entirely. He’d draw strange shapes on paper and tape them to his window. Symbols that matched the carvings Peter described.

Clara began compiling Peter’s journal pages, trying to piece together what the "beacon" truly was. The last entry mentioned a ritual, a pact made generations ago by townsfolk desperate for prosperity. Fire and celebration had kept "it" asleep—but each year fed it slightly more.

And now it was awake.

There were whispers in the trees on windless days. Radio stations fuzzed into static near the hill. A strange, rhythmic thumping could sometimes be heard beneath the lake.

On July 3rd the following year, Clara received a letter with no return address. Inside was a photo—Peter standing beside a strange black stone, holding a lantern, in a place that looked like no part of Earth.

On the back, in jagged handwriting:

"Don’t let them light it again."