Chapter 1: The White Rat’s Betrayal

Second Uncle hiked up into the hills to hunt for wild herbs, rain coming down so hard it felt like the sky was punishing him. He wandered too far, got caught in a mudslide, and ended up trapped for three days—nearly starving to death.

He thought about his mom waiting up, porch light burning, probably muttering prayers for a son she figured was too stubborn to die. His boots had been sucked halfway off by the mud, jeans caked in layers of red clay, and the rain just kept coming, pounding the treetops like a thousand drumsticks. Every so often, thunder would roll across the hills, making him wonder if the whole mountain might just come loose and swallow him. Hunger gnawed at him, his hands shook with exhaustion, and he’d begun to wonder if he’d ever see Maple Heights—or his mother’s porch light—again.

On the edge of collapse, a white rat—big as a toddler, fur so white it glowed against the mud, eyes glinting with something almost human—appeared and led him to safety. Second Uncle blinked, half-expecting to see a ghost or the Devil himself.

It padded ahead with eerie confidence, its fur gleaming even under the wet gray light. The rat’s pink tail flicked through puddles, and it kept glancing back, as if urging him onward. At first, Second Uncle thought he was hallucinating from hunger, but the creature’s footprints pressed deep into the mud. He stumbled after, feeling as if he’d fallen into some fever dream.

When Second Uncle finally made it back, he was empty-handed and covered in cuts and bruises. He dreaded going home, afraid he'd become the laughingstock of Maple Heights.

He dragged himself across the familiar cracked pavement at the edge of town, limping past the old gas station where the neon sign buzzed even in the rain. Kids out riding their bikes in the stormy dusk pointed and snickered. The shame stung more than his skinned knees and the ache in his belly.

As he parted ways with the white rat, Second Uncle pretended to be grateful, telling it that once he got home, he'd set up a memorial plaque and light a candle in its honor.

He tried to sound solemn—wiping rain off his brow, he said, "Well, hell, buddy. Didn’t expect to owe my life to a giant mouse. I’ll set up a little shrine for you back home, swear on my mama’s porch."

The white rat, acting almost human, bowed in return. But unexpectedly, Second Uncle seized the moment. For a split second, he hesitated—then anger and hunger won out. He swung his foraging hoe down hard, all the fear and frustration of the past three days pouring into that single motion. There was a dull thump, a spray of blood across the weeds, and just like that, the strange creature lay still at his feet.

The white rat’s pelt was pure white and flawless, stretching nearly two feet across. Second Uncle instantly became the talk of the town.

News spread faster than wildfire—by noon, everyone from the diner waitress to the church ladies at bingo was talking about Second Uncle’s miracle pelt. Some folks gossiped that he’d killed a ghost; others whispered it was a government lab escapee.

When Grandma Carol saw the fur, her hands shook so bad she nearly dropped her mug of sweet tea. The pelt shimmered under the kitchen light, too pure for this world. For a split second, it seemed as if all the color had drained from her face—her blue eyes wide and haunted.

"This is the fur of a household spirit! You fool, you’ve brought disaster upon us!"

Her voice rose shrill and clear, echoing down the narrow hallway lined with faded family photos. She slammed her fist on the table, rattling the old salt shaker and sending a stack of mail tumbling to the floor.