Page 59 of The Knucklebone Brothers

The sun was bleeding out, painting the sky in streaks of orange and purple as we walked up the path to Momma's house. The air was getting cooler, and the sound of crickets chirping softly in the tall grass was the only thing breaking the silence. But as soon as our feet hit the edge of her front yard, that sound just... stopped. The quiet that fell was heavier, more deliberate than any natural silence ought to be.

Momma's house sat there like it was growing right out of the ground, all old and crooked, the paint peeling off in long, brittle strips. The whole porch looked tired, like it had seen too many years and too many secrets. We stepped up, and the wood groaned under our weight, a long, drawn-out creak that sounded like a sigh. In the corner, an old rocking chair sat, and for a second, I thought I saw it move, just a little rock, like someone had just gotten up. A neat pile of freshly cut wood sat next to it, the axe still buried in a log.

Just as I was looking at that chair, the boys both moved, quick and sudden, stepping in front of me so I was standing behind them. Blythe reached out and took hold of the doorknob, his hand steady. The door slowly creaked open on its own, revealing nothing but a dark, empty hallway. The air that drifted out was thick with the smell of spices and something else, something decaying, like dust sat for too long. It was an invitation, and a warning.

We stepped inside, Blythe in front of me and Maverick behind, a silent, imposing formation. The door swung shut behind us with a soft, final click, plunging the entryway back into near darkness. We began to walk down a long, narrow hallway. It was pitch black at first, the only light the faint glow from the doorway we had just left behind. I could feel the boys' presence, one in front, one behind, their bodies solid and warm in the cool, musty air.

Then, as we moved further in, the hallway began to light up, not all at once, but slowly, as if the house itself was waking up. Candles, tucked into old, ornate sconces on the walls, flickered to life one by one. Their light was soft and golden, casting long, dancing shadows that made the walls seem to breathe. The sconces themselves were beautiful, antique brass, intricately detailed, but they were covered in thick, heavy cobwebs, like dusty, cottony shrouds.

I walked between them, my heart beating a little too fast, my eyes taking in every detail. The house was old, and it was full of secrets. And I was walking right into its heart.

We stepped out of the hallway and into the kitchen, and the world shifted. The air was thick, heavy with a dozen different smells all fightin' for space. There was woodsmoke from the big black stove, the salty, greasy smell of bacon, the delicious smell of whatever was for dinner. Underneath it all was the smell of the house itself, old wood and something slightly earthy, like dirt and dried flowers that had been dead for years. It was the smell of a home, a real, lived-in home, but it was also the smell of a grave.

The kitchen was a masterpiece of decay. It was an old, rundown Appalachian farmhouse, but with touches of a strange, forgotten Victorian elegance. The walls were dark, aged wood, and the exposed beams overhead were thick and heavy, holding up the weight of the house. The floors were old, wide planks, worn smooth and shiny from decades of footsteps, some of them mine, some of them belongin' to people long dead. In the center of the room was a massive wooden worktable, its surface scarred and stained with the ghosts of a thousand meals.

The only light came from the fire glowin' inside the old cast-iron stove and from dozens of candles. They were practical, stuck in old glass jars and on tarnished brass candlesticks, half-melted and sitting on shelves and windowsills. Old lace curtains, yellowed with age, hung at the windows, slightly open, showing the dark woods outside. There were no cabinets, just open wooden shelves, and on them were cloudy mason jars filled with all sorts of things. Some were labeled, like "flour" and "beans," but others were filled with herbs and dried flowers and mysterious unlabeled things. Bundles of dried herbs hung from the ceiling beams, their scent minglin' with the smell of the cooking. Old copper pots and cast-iron pans hung over the stove. In the corner, on a small, dusty shelf, sat a small painted wooden carousel horse, its paint chipped and faded, its one glass eye staring out into the room.

And then there was Momma.

She was standing at the stove, her back to us, stirrin' a big pot with a long wooden spoon. She was striking, in a way that was both beautiful and terrifying. Her hair was a thick, grey braid that fell down her back, and she was wearing a long, dark dress, the kind of thing a woman would've worn a hundred years ago. It was simple, but it was made of a heavy, rich fabric, and it fit her perfectly. She was well-dressed, put-together, but there was something off about her, something otherworldly. She turned around, and I saw her face better. It was a beautiful face, with high cheekbones and a strong jaw, but her eyes were the same as Blythe's, only deeper, like they held all the secrets of the holler. Her hands, which were now holding the spoon, were scarred, the skin a roadmap of old burns and cuts. It was the hands of a woman who knew her way around a knife, a fire, and a body.

"Boys," she said, her voice low and smooth, like honey and whiskey. "You're late."

"We were showin' Rory the midway," Blythe said, his voice respectful.

Momma's eyes flicked over to me, and I felt a chill go down my spine. It was a quick, sharp look, a look that took in everything and nothing all at once. "Is that so?" she said, her voice not changing. "Well, dinner's almost ready. Go wash up."

The boys moved, but I just stood there, my feet feeling like they were nailed to the floor. This was their momma. This was the woman who had raised them, who had taught them how to be who they were. She was beautiful, and she was scary, and she was the keeper of all their darkest secrets. And as I stood there, I knew, with a certainty, that she was the most dangerous one of them all.

I felt like I stood there forever, my feet rooted to the worn plank floor. Momma went back to her chopping board, her knife moving in a steady, careless rhythm. She'd done this a thousand times, probably more. She was feeding the carnival, feeding her family, and I was just another mouth to fill. She paid me no mind at all, like I was just another piece of the furniture, another shadow in the corner. This was the matriarch, and I knew that with just a flick of her wrist, she could have me killed or chained back up in that trailer without a second thought. I needed to try and make some sort of peace with her, or at least not make an enemy.

"Can I... can I help with anythin’?" I asked, my voice sounding small and hesitant even to my own ears.

Momma didn't even look up. The knife just kept moving. It was like I hadn't even spoken. The silence stretched, thick and uncomfortable, until I couldn't take it anymore. I took a step forward, my boot heel coming down hard on a loose floorboard.

That's when I heard it. A creakin' sound from above me, followed by a burst of high-pitched gigglin'. Then a door slammed shut. I looked up at the ceiling, my heart hammering against my ribs, but Momma didn't even flinch. She didn't look up, she didn't acknowledge it at all. It was like it was the most normal thing in the world to hear ghostly laughter in the attic.

Just then, the boys reappeared, coming from a dark hallway off the kitchen. Momma finally stopped her chopping, laying her knife down on the board with a soft click. "You need to take Rory to her spot at the table," she said, her voice low and smooth. "Get her set up." She looked at Blythe, her eyes dark and serious. "Blythe, go get some firewood and get the fire goin' in the parlor. It'll be a cold night."

Maverick led me out of the kitchen and into a large, dimly lit room. A long, heavy table made of dark, worn wood dominated the space, its surface a roadmap of scratches and gouges from decades of use. He walked me to the far end of the table. "You'll sit here," he said, his voice low. "Momma sits at the head." He gestured to the opposite end, a imposing chair that seemed to rule the room. "But you should be at the head, too. So you'll get the foot for now."

The table was set, but not like any picture I'd ever seen. Old brass candlesticks, their wax drippin' down the sides in muted colors. Under the plates were faded floral table mats, their patterns barely visible under years of use. The plates were mismatched, heavy, antique-looking things with tiny chips around the rim. The silverware was tarnished, each piece different from the last, and the cups were cloudy glass, some with small bubbles trapped in their sides. In the center of it all sat a large glass pitcher, beads of condensation running down its sides, filled with dark, sweet tea.

A small fire crackled in a large brick fireplace. The chairs were old, too, made of heavy wood with high backs, each one looking more uncomfortable than the last. I sat down hesitantly, the chair creakin' under my weight.

Blythe came in then, his arms full of firewood. He went straight to the fireplace, kneelin' down to add the logs to the fire, his movements quiet and efficient. The fire flared up, casting a warm, flickering glow over the room.

"Boys!" Momma's voice called from the kitchen. "Come help carry in the food."

They both disappeared, and came back a moment later, their arms loaded. Maverick carried a big, battered pot, the kind you'd see in an old camp, filled with a thick, dark stew that smelled of bacon and cabbage and something earthy and wild. Blythe followed with a big, woven basket piled high with cornbread, a faded tea towel draped over the top. There was butter, too, in a chipped ceramic dish, its surface a pale, creamy yellow.

I watched them, these boys I knew were psychopaths, actin' so... domesticated. They were helping their momma carry in dinner, setting the food on the table with a care that seemed so out of place. And then there was their momma, the woman who raised them to be who they were. Cannibals, murderers, God knows what else. This all looked so normal, so wholesome, but it felt so wrong. It was like watching a pack of wolves sit down to a family dinner, smiling and passing the potatoes like they hadn't just torn a man apart with their bare hands. And I was the only one who seemed to see it.

Momma picked up a long, wooden spoon, its handle dark and smooth from years of use. and started dishing out the stew, moving around the table like this was the most normal dinner in the world. As she ladled the thick, dark stew onto each plate, a cloud of steam rolled across the table, carryin' the rich smell of what looked like swamp cabbage. It filled the whole room, making my stomach growl despite the knot of fear that was still sitting there.

She came to me last, her movements just as steady, just as careless as they had been with the boys. She plopped a generous portion of the stew onto my plate, the dark, chunky liquid splashing a little onto the faded floral mat. Then she picked up the basket of cornbread and dropped a piece onto my plate, right beside the stew. It was a thick, craggy piece, its crust a deep, golden brown.

She looked at me, her eyes unreadable. "Eat, baby," she said, her voice low and smooth. "You look half-starved."