Chapter 4: The Price of the Ritual

Aunt Martha leaned against the window, gave a weird, sinister grin, and began to squeeze into the room. Her smile stretched, eyes wild. She pressed her face through the bars, skin bunching, bones cracking.

Her jaw unhinged, silent as a nightmare, and something slick and white slid out—a bone, real and glistening. My gut twisted. This was no trick of the light.

Her limbs bent at impossible angles as she crawled through the window. She grabbed me and dragged me across the floor, grip like iron.

My arms felt like wet noodles. She shoved my hand into the flames, the heat biting my skin. I tried to pull away, but she was strong—impossibly strong.

As the cash burned, she began to change—wrinkles fading, hair darkening. With every dollar, she grew younger. I watched, helpless, as my hands shriveled, my body aging in fast-forward.

This wasn’t burning money for the dead. It was burning my own life for hers. I chewed the bill, the taste of ink and sweat sticking to my tongue. My stomach cramped, but I forced it down, praying she wouldn’t notice.

I played dead, stuffing more bills in my mouth when she looked away. But she burned faster than I could eat. By the end, I’d only swallowed a little over a thousand dollars.

Now Aunt Martha looked like a young woman, eyes sparkling, lips full. I—my hands were thin as chicken claws, body ancient.

She frowned: “Why aren’t you dead yet?” Her voice was sharp, suspicious.

My only hope was that I’d outfoxed her. If I burned all the money, I’d die. Then Aunt Martha could cancel the transfer and get the cash back. The perfect scam.

She tore through my cabinets, searching for the missing money. Her magic needed every last bill.

If she found out I’d eaten it, she might cut me open. I shrank back, mouth sealed.

Suddenly, Aunt Martha grabbed my kitchen knife, stalking toward me. The blade caught the candlelight, flashing cold. My heart hammered. I braced myself, searching for any escape.

She sneered: “Tell me—where’s the rest of the money?”

I gave a bitter smile. “I’m already this old. Do you think I’m still afraid of dying?”

Aunt Martha gritted her teeth. “If you won’t tell me, I’ll cut your flesh off piece by piece.”

I stared at the burning candle, utterly hopeless. The flame flickered, a tiny point of light in the darkness. But then I remembered: the wind had tried to blow out the fire pit, but the candle barely wavered. Maybe something was helping me.

The only thing in my room that broke her taboo was the Lincoln sticker. Maybe he was my lucky charm after all.

Desperation sparked a bold idea. I noticed Aunt Martha was aging again, the ritual faltering. I pretended to be scared: “I hid some money in the cabinet. I thought you wouldn’t find it.”

She leaned in, knife gleaming dangerously. “Now, dying for me is what you deserve.”

Aunt Martha vanished into my bedroom, knife in hand. I clung to the chair, praying Honest Abe was watching. Whatever happened next, I knew I was out of time.