Chapter 6: A Family’s Test

Uncle Derek paused.

His hand hovered over the latch, doubt flickering across his face.

Grandma said, “Your dad is impatient. He never knocks just three times.”

Her voice was low and urgent, as if she were reciting some secret code only family would know.

Hearing this, my hair stood on end.

I remembered all those winter evenings Grandpa coming in—he’d always pound on the door in a rapid jumble, never that slow, methodical knock. I flashed back to him banging on the door after a long fishing trip, hollering from the porch if dinner was late—never patient, never quiet.

I thought of what they said before, about Old Mo propping up a straw-filled person at the door. If you open the door, whoever steps out gets eaten.

My mouth went dry. I tried not to imagine a straw man standing in the snow, waiting.

I couldn’t stop shaking.

My teeth chattered, but not from cold.

The person outside grew more anxious, slapping the door so hard it sounded like thunder.

Each hit reverberated through the house, rattling the mugs in the kitchen cupboards. It sounded like the whole door might splinter.

Still Grandpa’s voice: “Hurry up and open the door!”

But now there was an edge to it, a tone I’d never heard from Grandpa.

Grandma gave Uncle Derek a look, then pointed at the ladder.

The look was all business, the kind of silent communication families develop in hard winters.

He understood right away. He quickly climbed up the ladder to the roof to see who was outside.

The roof groaned under his boots, and the wind bit through the gaps in the shingles. I watched his breath curl away, disappearing into the white. The cold wind whipped around him, and I heard the ice crack under his weight.

After a while, he climbed back down, his legs shaking.

His face was ghost-white, lips pressed tight. He couldn’t meet Grandma’s eyes.

“The fog is too thick. The person is standing right by the door. From the roof, you can’t see clearly. But from up there, I could see the top of a head. My dad isn’t that tall. It’s definitely not him.”

His voice was barely more than a whisper, but the fear was unmistakable.

The front door was being pounded even harder. A couple more hits and it seemed like it would be knocked down.

The hinges groaned, the wood splintering just a little more with every blow.

I felt my blood run cold.

My arms went numb, and I pressed my back to the wall.

The three of us didn’t dare open the door, but we didn’t dare not open it either.

It felt like being trapped between a bear and the river—no way forward or back.

I was so scared I could hardly breathe, and Uncle Derek’s knees were still shaking.

The only sound was his uneven breathing and Grandma’s quiet muttering under her breath, prayers mixed with curses.

Grandma was the first to calm down.

She squared her shoulders, the familiar toughness in her eyes returning. She took a deep breath and wiped her hands on her apron.

She shouted toward the front gate, “Joe, wait a moment!”

Her voice was loud and commanding, as if daring whatever was out there to answer.

She told Uncle Derek to hide me in the coal pile. That coal pile could cover both my scent and the color of my clothes.

The coal bin was cold and dirty, but she pushed me inside anyway, piling the lid on top. I could smell dust and old earth. My heart pounded like a trapped rabbit’s.

“Natalie, no matter what happens, don’t make a sound, don’t come out. Old Mo won’t find you,” Grandma whispered to me.

Her lips were close to my ear, her hands squeezing my shoulders for reassurance. She pulled the lid tight, blocking out the light.

The person outside said, “Hurry up! If you bring Old Mo over here, our whole family will die!”

The voice had changed—higher, desperate, nothing like Grandpa’s usual gruff bark. My skin prickled with dread.

Grandma said in terror, “We really have been targeted by Old Mo.”

She slumped against the coal bin, eyes wide with panic.

Uncle Derek, holding the hatchet, said in a trembling voice, “If it comes in, I’ll fight it. Mom, you take Natalie and climb over to Mrs. Peterson’s house.”

His grip on the hatchet was so tight his knuckles went white. He looked ready to go down swinging, even if he knew it wouldn’t matter.

Grandma said, “No. If Old Mo gets into the house, you can’t stop it. Even if we climb over, we can’t escape. Old Mo is afraid of gunpowder. Go get the fireworks. Back then, we only killed it with the hunting rifle, not with knives or sticks.”

She pointed to the pantry, where boxes of leftover Fourth of July fireworks were stored. Her voice was steady, practical.

Luckily, it was almost Christmas, and our house had stored a lot of fireworks and firecrackers.

I remembered helping Grandpa stock up every December, so the kids could have sparklers for Christmas Eve. Who knew they’d be used for this?

Uncle Derek brought out half a yard’s worth.

He dumped armfuls of roman candles, bottle rockets, and a whole carton of black cats onto the kitchen table. The scent of gunpowder filled the air.

The big gate was already shaking from being pounded.

The old hinges screeched in protest, the sound sharp as a scream.

A finger reached in through the crack in the door to hook the bolt.

It was long—far too long—and so black it made the porch light flicker, like it sucked up the glow.

That finger was pitch black.

A shudder ran through me, the sight burned into my memory.

It definitely wasn’t my grandpa’s.

Grandpa’s fingers were short and knobby, always stained with tobacco and engine grease.

I watched as it was about to hook the bolt open.

Time seemed to slow, each second stretching into forever. I wanted to scream, but remembered Grandma’s warning.

At that critical moment, Uncle Derek lit a string of flash crackers and threw it at the door.

The fuse sizzled, then the firecrackers exploded in a brilliant, ear-splitting flash. The smell of sulfur filled the room, masking everything else.

With a bang, that hand instantly withdrew.

There was a hissing, angry sound, and the finger vanished like a shadow in headlights.

After two seconds, Grandpa’s voice came from outside, “Why are you setting off fireworks in broad daylight when it’s not even the holidays?”

The familiar annoyance in his tone made me gasp with relief. That was my grandpa.