Chapter 2: The Spirit’s Curse Spreads

Grandma Carol’s ancestors were once well-known spiritual healers.

Back in the day, people from as far as Pine Bluff and Willow Springs would make the drive out to Maple Heights, seeking her family’s help with things no doctor could fix—strange sicknesses, haunted farmhouses, livestock that wouldn’t bear young. Old timers still whispered about her great-granddad reading fortunes by candlelight in the parlor.

In the surrounding towns, whenever people encountered strange or sinister happenings, they would come to Grandma Carol for help.

Kids at school used to dare each other to sneak up to her porch on Halloween, hoping for a glimpse of her jars filled with dried herbs and animal bones. Even the local sheriff sometimes called on her for advice when things went too weird for regular law.

She forced Second Uncle to explain exactly where the white rat skin had come from. After hearing his story, she let out a long sigh.

She pulled up a kitchen chair with a creak, folded her hands, and made Second Uncle recount every last detail. He tried to gloss over the worst parts, but she pressed him with sharp questions until the whole story tumbled out. When he finished, Grandma Carol let out a sigh deep enough to rattle the window glass.

Gently stroking the white rat skin, Grandma Carol murmured:

"Long ago, there were Five Spirits: the Fox Spirit was the most cunning, the Yellow Spirit the most spiteful, the White Spirit the kindest, the Willow Spirit the most divine, and the Gray Spirit the most mysterious. The Five Spirits cultivated virtue, thrived on prayers, protected households, warded off disaster, and solved problems. This white rat belongs to the lineage of the Gray Spirit. It saved you out of kindness, to build virtue, and you repaid it with betrayal."

Her fingers trembled slightly as she spoke, her voice soft but insistent, the way she used to tell ghost stories when the power went out during summer storms. The names sounded as old as the Appalachian foothills, woven with the sort of superstition you’d hear at the church potluck, but the dread in her eyes was all too real.

Second Uncle curled his lip.

He shifted in his seat, looking away, picking at a splinter on the edge of the dining table.

"If you’re gonna help someone, you might as well finish the job. Since it saved me, it shouldn’t have let me come back empty-handed. It’s just..."

He trailed off, glancing at the old hunting rifle hanging over the mantel, as if looking for reassurance.

Second Uncle weighed the pelt in his hands, a trace of disdain at the corner of his mouth.

He thumbed the edge of the fur, as if judging a piece of steak at the butcher’s counter, eyes narrowed in calculation.

"Ain’t no spirit ever paid my bills. It’s just a big rat, and now it’s mine."

He shrugged, tossing the fur onto the kitchen counter with a snort, as if to say, what’s all the fuss?

Grandma Carol glared at him.

She fixed him with the same icy stare she used on stray dogs that got into her garden beds.

"Inside a spirit’s fur, there’s a golden thread. Each inch of thread stands for a year of growth. Only when it reaches nine inches does it count as a minor achievement—at that point, it can speak human words and wield magical powers. Then the elders let it out into the world, open a hall, and gather followers."

She spoke as if reciting a family recipe, but the words were laced with warning, her voice grave and steady. Second Uncle shifted, less certain now.

Second Uncle carefully parted the fur and sure enough, found a golden thread, just a little over an inch long.

His fingers trembled as he teased apart the white hairs. The gold glinted in the afternoon light—thin, delicate, barely more than a hair. For a moment, nobody said anything, the house gone silent but for the distant hum of cicadas outside.

Grandma Carol continued:

"Its golden thread is only a bit over an inch—this must be a newly born little spirit, probably snuck out on its own. There must be elders behind it. You, you’ve caused a real mess."

She gave him a look that was equal parts pity and exasperation, the way a mother looks at a kid who’s broken something precious. Her voice quavered with a fear she tried to hide.

"What spirit? Just a big rat. I could kill a dozen with two swings."

Second Uncle neither agreed nor disagreed, then burst out laughing.

He threw his head back, laughter echoing off the linoleum, the sound forced and a little wild. He tried to play it cool, but his eyes darted toward the window as if expecting something to peer back at him.

"No, this is indeed a spirit."

He unfurled the pelt, held it before his face, and took a deep breath.

There was no trace of a foul odor—only the pure scent of wild herbs and grass.

The earthy fragrance brought to mind the damp woods after rain, a memory of hunting morels with his brother as kids, before the world went sideways.

"Mr. Lambert from the east side wanted to buy this skin for a thousand bucks. Good thing I didn’t agree. Since it’s a spirit’s fur, I should sell it for three thousand—no, thirty thousand!"

His eyes glittered with dollar signs. He paced the kitchen, imagining payday, already planning what he'd spend it on: a new truck, maybe, or a big-screen TV for the living room.

Grandma Carol looked at Second Uncle, whose mind was clouded by greed, her face full of worry.

She pressed the heels of her hands against her temples, lips pursed, worry lines deepening. Her eyes lingered on the family photos taped to the fridge—faded Polaroids of sons and grandkids lost and gone.

Grandpa Joe and Dad had died in a mining accident last year, leaving only Second Uncle as the last man in the family. If anything happened to him, how could she face the family ancestors in the afterlife?

The memory of that awful day was still fresh: the sirens, the knock at the door, the weight of neighbors’ stares. Now, the house felt emptier than ever, each absence a bruise that never healed. She clung to Second Uncle despite his faults—he was all she had left.

"Still thinking about money? Soon you might not even have your life! Sew up the little spirit’s body right now. I’ll take you to find a good burial spot, set up a plaque for the household guardian, and light a candle every day. Let the little spirit find peace in death—maybe then we can avoid disaster."

She pushed herself up from the table, voice trembling with authority, the same way she’d order men around at funerals. Her hands shook as she reached for the old sewing kit, already planning the rites she’d learned from her grandmother.

At these words, Second Uncle seemed to remember something and hurriedly ran toward the edge of town.

He jammed his feet back into his muddy boots, nearly tripping over the threshold, muttering about not leaving good money to rot in the woods. The screen door banged behind him, leaving Grandma Carol and me in the hush of the kitchen.