Blood on the Mountain: The Bargain

Grandpa turned to me. “Eli, grab the red paper and marker from the den.”

“Okay,” I said, and ran to get them.

My hands shook a little as I rummaged through the cluttered desk drawer. I found the red construction paper leftover from last Christmas and a fat black marker.

Grandpa dipped the marker in the chicken blood—its smell sharp and metallic, almost coppery—and drew strange symbols on the red paper. He asked, “What’s your name, son?”

I watched, wide-eyed, as the marker left dark, sticky lines across the paper. The smell was sharp and metallic, making my stomach flip.

“Tom Harlan,” he said.

“Where’s home?”

“Silver Hollow.”

Grandpa frowned, shaking his head. “Silver Hollow’s too far. You won’t make it back in time.”

He shook his head, lips pressed tight. Silver Hollow was at least two counties over—a long, winding drive through the hills.

“Then what should I do?”

Grandpa didn’t answer. He kept drawing on the red paper until it was filled with marks. Then he cut it into the shape of a shirt and draped it over the man’s shoulders.

The paper rustled as Grandpa settled it around Tom’s neck, the makeshift talisman looking almost silly on a grown man. But Tom stood there solemnly, like he’d just been handed a suit of armor.

“Three days from now, you have to come back before sunset and burn this paper in the yard. That’s the only way this will end.”

Grandpa’s voice was low and serious—the kind of tone he used when he talked about things you didn’t joke about, like tornado warnings or the time the church caught fire.

The man looked stunned. “What if I can’t get back in time?”

Grandpa just narrowed his eyes and didn’t say a word.

The silence stretched between them, thick as molasses. I could hear the wind rattling the windows, and for a second, nobody moved.

The man forced a laugh. Didn’t ask any more questions. “Mr. Walker, I’ll come back. I’ll pay you then.”

He tried to sound light, but his voice wavered. He tucked the edge of the red paper tighter around his shoulders, glancing at me with a nervous smile.

Grandpa said, “No matter what, you have to be back in three days.”

He looked Tom straight in the eyes, making sure the message landed. Grandpa didn’t repeat himself unless it was life or death.

The man nodded. “I will.”

“Then go.”

Grandpa and the man headed out, leaving just Grandma and me.

The porch light flickered as they disappeared into the dusk. The air felt suddenly empty. Grandma watched them go, her lips pressed into a thin line.

Grandma sighed. “Eli, go boil some water. We’ll have chicken for dinner tonight.”

She tried to sound cheerful, but I could tell her mind was elsewhere. She patted my shoulder, her hand warm and steady.

I grinned. “Okay!”

The thought of chicken and potatoes made my stomach rumble. I hurried into the kitchen, eager to help.

I filled the kettle, set it on the old stove, and listened to the comforting hiss of the burner. The kitchen smelled like wood smoke and fresh-cut pine from the firewood stacked by the door.

Night fell. Grandma finished stewing the chicken, and soon the whole house was filled with the smell.

The scent drifted through every room, rich and savory. It was the kind of meal that made you feel safe, no matter how wild the wind howled outside.

I was so hungry my stomach was growling. Grandma ladled out a drumstick and some potatoes for me. “Starving? Eat a little first,” she said. “We’ll wait for Grandpa before having the rest.”

She smiled, her eyes crinkling at the corners, and handed me a chipped bowl. The food was steaming, flecks of herbs floating in the broth.

I nodded. “Okay.”

I tried to eat slowly, but the warmth of the chicken filled me up from the inside, easing the knot in my chest.

Grandma put on her coat and stepped outside.

She pulled her coat tight, glancing back at me. “I’ll just check on the woodpile, Eli. Don’t go opening the door for strangers.”

I was left alone in the house.

The house felt too big and too quiet. The ticking clock in the hallway seemed extra loud, and I could hear the wind picking up outside, rattling the shutters.

I ran to the kitchen and snuck a few more bites of chicken from the pot. The meat was so tender, and the potatoes were like mashed gold—smelled amazing. I filled half a bowl of rice and stood by the stove, eating.