Chapter 5: The Mark of the Spirit

At the feast, everyone held a bowl of meat soup, thick and milky, their fingers itching to dig in.

The backyard was a sea of eager faces, bowls steaming in the evening air. Someone turned on the old Christmas lights strung along the fence, adding a surreal glow to the gathering.

Old Hank was first. The soup was boiling, so he blew on it and slurped a mouthful along the rim.

He sucked in air, his lips pursed, not waiting for the soup to cool. His hands shook, knuckles white around the ceramic bowl.

Before anyone could ask about the taste, he ignored everything and gulped down soup and meat, as if trying to swallow his own tongue.

He choked down mouthful after mouthful, soup dribbling down his chin, eyes glazed with delight.

Afterward, Old Hank stared hungrily at everyone else’s bowls.

He licked his lips, watching each bite, hunger undiminished, his gaze wild.

"Lisa, I drank too fast, didn’t taste it. How about I give you a thousand, just let me have another sip?"

He fished a wad of crumpled bills from his shirt pocket, waving it in desperation.

Lisa wasn’t stupid—she downed her own soup in one gulp.

She smirked and tilted her head back, draining the bowl, not about to let a single drop go to waste.

After drinking the soup, everyone felt a strange heat rising from their bellies, flowing to their limbs, as if they were floating in paradise.

A soft hum rose from the crowd—sighs, exclamations, people fanning their faces as if the summer heat had suddenly doubled. Eyes glowed with unnatural brightness, skin flushed, voices thick with wonder.

Second Uncle, being somewhat dutiful, left a bowl for Grandma Carol, but she knocked it to the ground and shouted sternly:

She swatted the bowl aside, sending it spinning off the steps, soup splattering across the grass.

"Spirit flesh brings disaster! Those who eat it will die unburied!"

Her voice cracked like a whip, slicing through the crowd’s daze. A hush fell, but only for a moment—then the greedy clamor resumed.

Second Uncle, annoyed, quickly shoved Grandma Carol into the house.

He hustled her up the porch stairs, jaw clenched tight, muttering curses under his breath.

"Old fool, always spouting nonsense. Everyone, pay her no mind."

He forced a smile for the crowd, putting on a show of bravado.

Second Uncle had just raised the price, selling the whole pot for nearly fifty thousand dollars. He didn’t want anything ruining his business.

As the cash piled up in a battered cigar box, he kept glancing at the door, as if daring Grandma Carol to return.

Before closing the door, he kicked me inside as well.

His boot caught me in the hip, propelling me through the doorway.

"You little freeloader, what are you doing here? Want some soup? Get in there and look after Grandma."

He jabbed a finger at me, then slammed the door, cutting off the roar of the crowd outside.

Second Uncle turned around and saw Old Hank lying on the ground, licking the spilled soup like a dog.

The sight would have been comical if it wasn’t so desperate—Hank on all fours, face pressed to the dirt, tongue lapping up the milky broth.

He was infamous for gluttony. Once, for a taste of raccoon meat, he stole the town sheriff’s hunting dog and lost three fingers to its bite.

That story was still told at every cookout, always with a little more exaggeration. Hank had never met a meal he didn’t want seconds of, no matter the cost.

He’d just emptied his wallet, drank three bowls in a row, and was still unsatisfied.

Sweat beaded on his forehead, breath coming in ragged gasps. He looked up, eyes wild, clutching his bowl like a winning lottery ticket.

"To taste something like this in life—it’s worth dying for!"

He slurred his words, grinning wide, oblivious to the stares.

The next day, Old Hank was dead, and his death was horrific.

The news traveled faster than gossip at Sunday service. By dawn, folks were gathered in clumps at the end of Hank’s driveway, whispering behind their hands.