Chapter 4: Soup, Greed, and Death

Second Uncle had been a troublemaker since childhood, with no other skills, but his cooking was honed from years of sneaking neighbors’ chickens and ducks.

He was infamous for raiding chicken coops and barbecue pits during summer block parties. The townsfolk joked he could whip up a stew from a handful of weeds and whatever critter he caught behind the shed. That wild streak made his cooking unpredictable, but always mouthwatering.

Shaving meat, chopping bone, slicing tendons, splitting marrow—he tossed the chunks into boiling water without a pinch of seasoning, and a strange aroma soon wafted up.

The backyard filled with a rich, meaty scent that drifted all the way down Maple Avenue. Even the stray cats lined up by the fence, tails flicking, hoping for scraps. It was the kind of smell that made your stomach grumble no matter how full you were.

That fragrance seemed to awaken people’s deepest cravings.

Neighbors peeked through their windows, noses pressed to glass. Old Mrs. Bates from next door clutched her heart, whispering about how she hadn’t smelled cooking that good since her wedding night.

Everyone’s eyes widened, and the sound of people swallowing filled the air.

You could practically feel the hunger in the crowd. Folks shifted from foot to foot, hands stuffed in pockets, licking their lips. Even the local pastor looked tempted, though he muttered a prayer under his breath.

"I smell the pot roast my mom made when I was little."

A retired steelworker in a faded ball cap wiped a tear from his eye, voice trembling with memory.

"Pot roast? It’s the brisket from that steakhouse in the city!"

A college student home for summer break cut in, eyes bright behind thick glasses.

"You small-towners haven’t tasted anything good—this is obviously prime rib from a fancy restaurant. Rich, savory, absolutely top-notch!" said Mr. Lambert, who fancied himself a foodie.

He spoke with the confidence of someone who’d watched every episode of Top Chef, waving his arms as if conducting a symphony.

I’d never eaten anything so fine. On holidays, I might get half a bowl of chicken noodle soup. This aroma was ten times richer.

I stood by the back porch, mouth watering. All those Christmases and Thanksgivings where leftovers were a blessing—nothing ever smelled like this. My stomach clenched in anticipation and fear.

One pot of soup, a hundred fragrances. The miracle drove everyone wild.

People started pushing, elbowing for a better spot. A few waved cash in the air, trying to get Second Uncle’s attention.

People who’d just been watching now surged forward, waving cash at Second Uncle.

The kitchen window fogged up with breath as the line grew, voices rising in excitement.

"I want a bowl!"

A woman from the hardware store pressed her bills to the window, cheeks flushed with hunger.

"Move over, I’ll pay extra—give me two!"

A man in a muddy work uniform elbowed forward, waving a fistful of twenties.

"Uncle Mike, Second Brother, Grandpa Joe—save me a bowl, I’ll pay double!"

It seemed like everyone in Maple Heights wanted a taste, family ties and friendships forgotten in the scramble.

Grandma Carol couldn’t stop them and could only pull me aside, her withered fingers like eagle talons digging into my arm.

She gripped me so tight I winced, eyes sharp with urgency.

"Natalie, remember—no matter what, you must not eat the spirit’s flesh."

Her voice was low and fierce, her breath hot in my ear. I nodded, dazed.

Fear and confusion warred in my chest. I swallowed hard, fighting the urge to look back at the steaming pot.