Chapter 6: Death Comes Home

When they found him, Old Hank was lying on his back in bed. His left eye was missing, his right eye dangled from his face. His mouth and throat were stretched impossibly wide, exposing his shattered throat and hollow abdomen, as if something had eaten his organs clean and crawled out through his throat.

It was the kind of scene you’d expect in a Stephen King paperback, not on sleepy Maple Avenue. Even the sheriff crossed himself before going in. Bloody claw marks covered not only his body, but the floor, table, even the ceiling—countless claw prints everywhere.

A dozen handprints in every direction, the walls streaked with blood, claw marks gouged into the wooden beams. The place looked like a tornado had been let loose inside.

There were dog prints, raccoon prints, cat prints, chicken prints—all different shapes and sizes.

People whispered that it was as if every animal Old Hank had ever eaten had come back to collect their debt. Some said they saw a possum-shaped shadow in the window that night.

Old Hank’s elderly mother was so frightened she was hospitalized. His wife, Patty, gathered several men she was close with and dragged the corpse to our doorstep.

Patty stormed up, mascara streaked from crying—or maybe rage—flanked by a handful of rough-looking men from the bar. Together, they hauled Hank’s body through the rain, dumping it in front of our porch like a sack of rotten potatoes.

"The Ma family ought to pay—selling poisoned meat! Give me my husband’s life!"

She shouted so loud the neighbors poked their heads out, kids pressed to their mothers’ legs, everyone eager for a show.

"He died from eating your demon meat. You’re the murderers!"

She pointed a trembling finger at Second Uncle, eyes wild, her men grumbling agreement.

Old Hank had been greedy, a gambler, and a coward. Patty had long been seeing other men. Now she was just jealous of the big pot of meat soup money Second Uncle made yesterday.

Everyone knew Patty had a wandering eye. Her marriage to Hank was a punchline at poker night, but money talks louder than pride in Maple Heights. The soup profits made her angrier than any affair.

Old Hank’s corpse was sprawled in the mud outside our door as both sides argued fiercely, no one paying attention.

Neighbors gawked from behind curtains, some filming on their phones for the local Facebook group. Thunder rolled in the distance, the sky threatening rain again.

A strange sound caught my ear, and against my will, I looked at Old Hank’s body.

Something like a high-pitched squeal, almost too soft to hear, crawled up my spine. I hugged myself, shivering.

From deep within his gaping mouth, faint squeaking noises drifted out, as if something inside was secretly watching the quarrel.

I squinted, trying to convince myself I was imagining things. The sound grew clearer, a wet, shivery squeak, echoing around my skull.

That thing seemed to notice me and slowly turned its head. A wave of terror washed over me.

For a second, I thought I saw something wriggle inside the darkness of Hank’s mouth, something with beady eyes fixed right on me.

My gut told me that if I made eye contact, something terrible would happen.

My breath caught, heart pounding. Every instinct screamed at me to look away, but my neck locked up, cold sweat running down my back.

But I was frozen, unable to move a finger.

My hands felt like they’d turned to stone, fingernails digging into my palms. I couldn’t even blink.

Suddenly, a withered hand pressed down on my head.

It was Grandma Carol.

She moved quietly, always seeming to appear when I needed her most. Her papery hand landed on my head, warm and steady, and just like that, the spell broke.

She lowered her eyes, the way kids do when they know better than to talk back, and whispered:

Her lips barely moved, but her words cut through the fear.

"Don’t look. The spirit is marking its enemies. Those it marks will be visited, one by one."

Her warning was cold and final. A shudder ran through me as she pulled me close, shielding me from the nightmare.

Second Uncle and Patty argued until, under the threat of her several boyfriends, he finally settled for ten thousand dollars.

Patty’s crew closed in, fists clenched, voices raised. Second Uncle did the math, realized the soup money was worth more than a hospital stay, and forked over the cash. He grumbled about it all the way back into the house.

"It was an accident, just an accident. The man got drunk, hit his head on the table, died. Nothing to do with the Ma family."

He recited the line to anyone who’d listen, trying to convince himself as much as anyone else. The sheriff rolled his eyes but wrote it down anyway.

Patty, after pocketing the money, grinned and sashayed off with her men, dumping Old Hank’s corpse in the mass grave outside town.

She strutted away, swinging the cash, not bothering to look back. The men followed, laughter echoing down the dirt road. Hank’s body lay forgotten, just another secret buried in the woods.

Not only did she trade her useless husband for ten thousand dollars, once Old Hank’s mother died, the Hank family’s old house would be hers too.

Neighbors shook their heads but kept their mouths shut. In small towns, fortunes turn on a dime, and Patty had just bought herself a fresh start.

The next night, Patty and her boyfriends all died—slaughtered by Mr. Lambert from the east side of town.

Rumor spread like wildfire. Some said Mr. Lambert was possessed, others that the spirit wanted vengeance. The truth was uglier than any ghost story, but nobody dared speak it out loud. People double-locked their doors and whispered prayers before bed.