Chapter 3: The Feast of Disaster

At first, I thought only the rat’s pelt was worth anything. But since it’s a spirit, even this stinking flesh could fetch a good price!

Second Uncle returned carrying a bloody, mangled lump.

He dumped the grotesque bundle onto the backyard table, blood and dirt oozing out, flies already starting to gather. He had wrapped it in a torn feed sack, which barely contained the mess.

Turns out, when he first came back to Maple Heights, he thought the flesh was too heavy to carry and only the fur was valuable, so he skinned the rat and tossed the carcass in the woods. Now, in a hurry, he went back down the slope and picked up the white rat’s body again.

His hands shook as he retold it, perhaps realizing just how far he’d gone to get what he thought was owed him. The town dogs barked from down the street, noses twitching at the scent of fresh kill.

I went closer for a look. The rat’s head was almost human-like, with two dark, empty eye sockets that made my skin crawl.

Goosebumps prickled up my arms. Its mouth seemed stretched in a silent scream. A shudder ran up my spine; I stepped back quickly, bumping into Grandma Carol.

"Tomorrow, the Ma family will host a feast—eating spirit flesh, hoping for a miracle—like the old revivals, only with soup instead of sermons. Five hundred bucks a bowl!"

Second Uncle’s voice boomed out, loud enough to carry across the backyards, catching the ears of everyone within three blocks. Word spread like wildfire; already folks were showing up, cash in hand, hungry for a taste of something forbidden.

The crowd erupted. Spirit flesh? What a treasure that must be!

Neighbors crowded the porch, pushing and jostling. Old-timers gawked, teens whipped out their phones to record, and even the town pastor peered over the fence, lips pursed in judgment.

Second Uncle repeated Grandma Carol’s words, but with embellishments:

"This is a treasure that became a spirit through virtue. Eat it, and women will become beautiful, men as strong as bulls, elders will live longer, and kids will grow clever and bright."

He winked and grinned like a carnival barker, already rehearsing the stories he’d tell when the reporters came.

Old Hank, unable to bear Second Uncle’s smugness, jeered:

He leaned against the porch railing, arms crossed, a smirk on his face. Hank had always been the loudest voice at the bar on Friday nights.

"Put your money where your mouth is, Ma. If your soup’s so magical, I’ll be the first to try it. If I drop dead, you owe me a new set of teeth."

He spat a wad of tobacco onto the grass, daring Second Uncle to answer.

Second Uncle roared with laughter.

He slapped his thigh, nearly doubling over. A few others joined in, eager for any excuse to mock Old Hank.

"Even the saints made sacrifices. We’re eating spirit flesh—treating the spirit as an angel, helping it ascend."

He grinned, revealing a chipped tooth, and waved his hand as if delivering a sermon of his own.

Old Hank wanted to retort, but Second Uncle glared at him with narrowed eyes.

The tension thickened. Hank, never one to back down in front of a crowd, squared his shoulders.

"What’s with all the talk? Are you eating or not? Or are you scared?"

He jabbed a finger in Hank’s direction, the challenge unmistakable.

"Scared of what?"

Old Hank, unable to back down, slapped five bills on the table.

His face flushed with pride and defiance. He laid out the money with a flourish, as if he’d just won the jackpot.

"Give me a bowl of head soup—let me taste this spirit flesh. If it’s not good, I’ll wreck your banquet."

He puffed out his chest, drawing a few nervous laughs from the crowd. The deal was on.