Page 95 of The Knucklebone Brothers

So, I just nodded. A small movement, like a bobblehead doll on a vibrating dashboard.

I started walkin'. Barefoot. My feet on the cold floorboards, a sharp, pricklin' sensation. I headed for the stairs, my body a ragdoll, a sack of meat that was barely holdin' itself together.

The house felt like it was breathin’ a Victorian skeleton with a heavy coat of dust and memories. The hallway was pitch black, save for the candlelight flickerin' from sconces along the wall. The flames danced, castin' long, writhin' shadows that looked like fingers reachin' out to grab my ankles. The air smelled like old money and rot, like a funeral parlor that never opened its doors. It was quiet, a heavy, oppressive silence.

I reached the stairs, my hand tremblin' as I gripped the banister. It was a grand thing, dark wood with intricate carvings, its surface smooth and polished from a hundred years of hands. I started down, my legs shaking, my breath comin' in short, sharp gasps. The boys followed me, shadows in the gloom. Maverick led the way, his back a wall of muscle, a shield against whatever was waitin' for me. Blythe was behind me, a silent guard dog.

I wanted to get to Momma and see for myself if she was real, or if I was still crazy.

The porch was a stage; the pumpkin lights painted the darkness in an orange grin. The fire pit crackled, feedin' on dry wood, sendin' sparks flyin' up like trapped fireflies. The whole family stood in a ragged circle, their faces a mask of cold, hard stone, their eyes a dark, watchin' thing, waitin'. Waitin' for the star to fall.

I scanned the porch, my heart hammerin', and there she was. In her rockin' chair. The wood creaked, a slow, mournful sound. I let out a breath I didn't know I was holdin', a wave of relief washin' over me, heavy and sweet.

I started toward her, my feet draggin' on the rough planks. I stopped right in front of her, my eyes searchin’ her face, lookin' for the crinkles around her eyes, the hardness in her jaw. And then I froze.

The relief evaporated, turnin' into somethin' cold and sharp, like a knife to the gut.

Her face was a ruin, shattered completely. Her cheek was caved in, a hollowed-out crater where the bone had given way to the hammer's weight. The skin was torn, raw and red, hangin' in strips like wet meat. Half her jaw was gone, just a jagged, bloody stump, and her teeth... I saw a tooth, a little, white thing on the porch floor. Her eyes were just empty, black holes, staring up at the sky. Her hair, that silver waterfall, was matted and caked with blood and brain matter, a dark, tangled mess that smelled of rot.

I stared at her, my mind a blank, white room. I had done this. I had killed her. I had bashed her skull in. And the family... they were just standin' there, watchin' me. They weren't surprised. They weren't mournin'. They were just waitin'.

And then, somethin' shifted. A click. A gear turnin' in my head. A door openin' in a dark, forgotten room. A slow smile stretched my lips, a small, secret thing. It started in the corners of my mouth, a tiny, hesitant twitch, and then it spread, a slow, creepin' curve.

This was mine.

The holler. The boys. The fear. The blood. It was all mine now. I had won. I had taken the throne. I was the queen of the holler.

I looked at Momma, at her shattered face, at her empty, black eyes, at the blood that was still drippin' from her ruined jaw. I had taken her place. I had become her. I was the new matriarch, the new monster in the dark. And I was gonna enjoy it. I was gonna enjoy every minute of it. The blood, the chaos.

The kitchen was warm, a heavy, buttery scent that smelled of cinnamon and old grease. It was the heart of the house, the belly of the beast, and I was the one cookin' tonight. The boys stood in the doorway, their silhouettes dark against the yellow glow, just watchin'.

I picked up the heavy cleaver. It was cold in my hand, a perfect, lethal weight. Momma had kept it sharp for me.

On the butcher block was momma's hand. The one she'd used to pray and to slap me. Now it was just meat, pale and still, the nails a dull, chipped polish. A fly buzzed lazily around the wrist, landin' on the blue-veined skin.

I raised the blade and brought it down. Thwack. A clean, satisfying sound. The bone split with a wet crack, a spray of red mist hittin' the chopping board. I didn't flinch. I didn't look away. I just chopped. The rhythm was soothing, a steady, hypnotic beat. I separated the fingers, set them aside, and then started on the palm, cleavin' away the flesh from the bone. The tendons were tough, like gristly strings, and I had to saw at them with the tip of the blade, the sound wet, and shreddin' that made my stomach clench in a way that felt almost like pleasure.

"Momma's gonna be in our bones now," I whispered, my voice low. "Can't get rid of us then."

I looked up, my eyes takin’ in the boys. Maverick was grinnin’, a dark, proud shape. Blythe just stared, his face a mask of uneasy respect. They knew what this was. A ritual. A way to keep the old queen alive, to make her part of us.

I sat at the head of the table, in Momma's throne. The chair was still warm, a ghost of her weight lingerin' in the wood, a heat that seeped into my bones like a slow poison.

The fire was a beast in the pit, cracklin' and spittin', its orange flames a hungry tongue lickin'. It made a sound like dry bones breakin', a wet snap that filled the silence.

Maverick ladled the stew into our bowls. It was a thick, dark sludge, a soup of secrets and sinew, the meat pulled from her I'd hacked off, the marrow I'd scooped. He set the bowl in front of me, his knuckles brushin' against the wood, and then he leaned down, his lips a warm, gentle kiss against my hair.

I took a spoonful. It was hot, burning my tongue, but I didn't care. The flavor hit me—salty, earthy, and deeply, undeniably Momma. It was the taste of the holler, the taste of the Knucklebone name, the taste of the woman who had tried to kill me. I could feel her energy, her will, flowin' down my throat, mixin' with my own.

Blythe reached for my hand, his fingers a warm, steady weight against my own. He didn't say a word. He just rubbed the back of my hand with his thumb, a slow, soothin' rhythm that was intimate. It was a promise. A vow.

I swallowed another bite, the lump of Momma goin' down easy. I looked from one man to the other, their eyes dark, watching my every move . They were my family. My monsters. My husbands.

I smiled, a small, secret thing that reached my eyes. This was home. This was family. This was my life.

Opening night - One year later

The Holler wasn't dead anymore. It was a different kind of alive. Like a corpse with electricity runnin' through it. The skeleton of the old midway stood up against the fading light, its rusty bones strung with orange lights that made the whole place look like it was bleedin'.