Chapter 3: The Skinwalker’s Price

Neighbors in pajamas, whispering and clutching their robes, ringed the barrel. Some covered their mouths, others just stared. The air buzzed with nervous energy, like a beehive after someone kicked it.

I peeked through the people and saw Uncle Ray, who’d been cursing just that morning, now curled up inside the huge whiskey barrel.

His body was twisted, arms tucked around his knees, like he’d climbed in for a nap. But his skin was pale, almost blue, and his lips were parted in a crooked smile. The whiskey sloshed around him, tinged a deep, unnatural red.

The whiskey in the barrel was stained red, and there was still a faint smile on Uncle Ray’s face, like he’d just had one last drink.

It was a smile I’d seen before, at family reunions and Fourth of July cookouts, but now it looked wrong—stretched too wide, too empty. I turned away, swallowing hard.

The neighbors whispered that Grandpa had died with regrets, so his spirit was taking his family, one by one.

Mrs. Evans, from two houses down, clutched her rosary and muttered prayers under her breath. Mr. Johnson shook his head, mumbling about old family curses and the price of secrets. The words swirled around me, thick as the summer heat.

Uncle Mike scowled, driving the onlookers away and told Uncle Pete to fetch Mr. Carter.

He barked orders, his face set in a hard, angry line. “Go get Carter. Now!” Uncle Pete took off running, dodging the gawkers. The rest of us just stood there, waiting, too afraid to look at the barrel again.

"Maddie, you said you heard Grandpa’s voice. Did he say anything else?"

Uncle Mike crouched down in front of me, his hands shaking. His eyes darted around, as if he was afraid Grandpa might answer for me.

He looked smaller than usual, hunched over like he was carrying the whole world on his back. I tried to remember him laughing, but all I could see was the fear in his eyes.

I trembled and repeated what I’d heard.

My voice was barely above a whisper, but I forced myself to say the words, each one scraping my throat raw. The crowd leaned in, hungry for answers.

Uncle Mike told me to call the rest of the family over so we could talk it over.

He squeezed my shoulder, then sent me running to fetch Aunt Sharon and the others. My legs felt like jelly, but I moved fast, desperate to be anywhere but near that barrel.

As I turned, I saw Uncle Mike reach into the whiskey barrel, as if searching for something.

His arm disappeared up to the elbow, fishing around in the murky liquid. He muttered under his breath, cursing softly. I wondered what he hoped to find.

When I came back with Aunt Sharon and the others, Mr. Carter was standing in front of the barrel, while Uncle Mike squatted beside him, smoking.

Mr. Carter’s suit was rumpled, his tie askew. He looked tired, like he’d been up all night, but his eyes were sharp. Uncle Mike puffed on his cigarette, the smoke curling around his head like a storm cloud.

"Someone moved the casket."

Mr. Carter’s voice was flat, but it cut through the chatter like a knife. Everyone fell silent, waiting for him to explain.

Mr. Carter was the funeral director in Maple Heights. Whenever someone died in the nearby neighborhoods, folks would call him to handle things.

He’d buried half the town, or so people liked to say. He knew every family secret, every old wound. When he spoke, people listened.

Mr. Carter stared at Uncle Ray’s body for a long time. "Hmph, you wanted the old man to become a ghoul. Starved into a ghoul, and the family would get good luck. But Mikey, you starved the old man too much. When I sealed the casket, I was afraid the old man’s resentment would turn evil, so I used a strip of oak to nail the casket. But just now I saw, the oak strip on the side of the casket is already broken. And Maddie here says she heard Grandpa’s voice. Your old man starved to death and bore a grudge. The resentment turned him into a corpse—I’m afraid he’s become a vengeful skinwalker."

The words hung in the air, heavy and strange. Some folks crossed themselves, others just stared at their shoes. The word "skinwalker" sent a chill through the crowd, even though most of us only knew it from old campfire stories.

I didn’t know what a vengeful skinwalker was, but Uncle Mike’s face went pale right away.

He looked like he might faint, sweat beading on his forehead. I tugged at Aunt Sharon’s sleeve, but she just stared at the ground, lips moving in silent prayer.

Mr. Carter didn’t say more, just told Uncle Pete to find some people and Aunt Sharon to collect a basin of boy’s urine.

Aunt Sharon looked scandalized, but she did as she was told, rounding up the neighbor boys and shooing them behind the garage. Uncle Pete got a couple men from the crowd, their faces grim.

On the evening of the fourth day after Grandpa died, his casket was opened again.

The sun was setting, painting the sky a bruised purple. The air felt thick, like it might storm any minute. We gathered around the tent, holding our breath as Mr. Carter pried open the casket lid.

I hid behind Uncle Pete, staring at the casket, afraid Grandpa would jump out.

My heart pounded so hard I thought it might burst. I squeezed Uncle Pete’s hand, my nails digging into his skin. He didn’t pull away.

But after a long time, Mr. Carter muttered as he opened the casket, only poked his head in for a look, then hurriedly picked up the boy’s urine and poured it inside.

The liquid hissed as it hit the wood, the smell sharp and sour. Mr. Carter wiped his hands on his pants, muttering a prayer under his breath.

"Put Uncle Ray into the casket!"

His voice was urgent, almost panicked. The men scrambled to obey, lifting Uncle Ray’s limp body and sliding it into the casket beside Grandpa. The crowd pressed closer, eyes wide.

Mr. Carter pointed at Uncle Mike and shouted, "Quick!"

Uncle Mike and Uncle Pete threw Uncle Ray’s body into the casket. Then I heard a chilling creaking sound.

It was like the wood itself was groaning, protesting. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up, and I clung to Uncle Pete’s arm.

It was like someone grinding their teeth right by my ear. "Fragrant, whiskey-soaked meat is fragrant. But still so hungry! Mikey’s got plenty of meat, want to eat."

The voice was so close I could feel it in my bones. I started shaking, tears streaming down my face. The words echoed inside my head, bouncing around like marbles in a jar.

It was Grandpa’s voice!

There was no mistaking it now. I covered my ears, but the voice only got louder. It was everywhere—inside me, outside me, filling up the whole tent.

I was so scared I started crying. Mr. Carter glanced at me.

His eyes softened for a moment, and he nodded at Uncle Pete to take care of me. The rest of the family huddled together, whispering prayers and clutching each other’s hands.

Uncle Pete came over, shielded me behind him, and gently stroked my head to comfort me.

He knelt down, pulling me into his arms. “It’s alright, Maddie,” he whispered, though his voice shook. “I got you.”

Uncle Mike stood off to the side, his face stern. "Mr. Carter, is someone playing a trick?"

He tried to sound tough, but his voice cracked. Everyone could see the fear in his eyes, the way his hands trembled at his sides.

Mr. Carter didn’t answer Uncle Mike, but looked around at all of us. "Who kept vigil these past few days?"

He counted heads, eyes sharp and suspicious. The crowd shifted uneasily, glancing at one another.

Uncle Pete pointed at me. "Me and Ray the last two nights. First two nights, me and Mike."

He squeezed my shoulder, as if to say it wasn’t my fault. I just nodded, too scared to speak.

Around here, there’s a lot of rules about keeping vigil. One is, there’s gotta be an even number.

It was an old superstition—something about balance, about keeping the spirits from getting restless. I’d always thought it was silly, but now I wasn’t so sure.

My father died early, so I had to help out for Grandpa.

It was a heavy burden for a seven-year-old, but nobody asked if I was up for it. They just handed me a candle and told me to be brave.

"The day your mother died, did anything strange happen?" Mr. Carter stared at Uncle Mike for a long time.

His gaze was sharp, almost accusing. Uncle Mike shifted from foot to foot, avoiding his eyes.

Uncle Mike turned to look at Grandma’s casket. "Maddie said she heard Grandpa shouting that he was hungry. Grandma went to cook, put her head in the stove, and burned herself to death."

His words were flat, emotionless, as if he was reading from a script. I wondered if he even believed what he was saying.

Uncle Mike’s tone was calm, as if it wasn’t his own mother who had died.

The others murmured, some shaking their heads, others crossing themselves. Grief hung over us all, thick as the summer heat.

"Why didn’t you tell me? Didn’t I say to come to me if anything strange happened?" Mr. Carter’s face darkened; he seemed very angry.

His voice was sharp, slicing through the crowd. Uncle Mike looked away, jaw clenched.

"Ray went to find you. Didn’t you tell us to just collect the body and seal the casket?" Uncle Pete, standing next to me, spoke up.

He tried to defend Uncle Mike, but his voice was small, uncertain. Mr. Carter just shook his head, disappointment etched deep in his face.

Mr. Carter sighed deeply. "Hmph, everyone has their own motives. Only your third brother was honest—pity he was short-lived!"

He glanced at me, his eyes softening for a moment. I felt a lump in my throat, thinking about my dad, about how much I missed him.

The third is my father. He died of a serious illness before I was born, and my mom lost her mind after that.

They said she lost her mind from grief, wandering the house at night, talking to shadows. I remembered her singing lullabies to the empty crib, her eyes far away.

I thought about not bringing food home today. I didn’t know if Mom was hungry or if she could find something to eat on her own.

Guilt gnawed at me, sharper than hunger. I wondered if Mom even noticed I was gone, if she missed me at all.

Mr. Carter’s cold tone interrupted my thoughts. "A skinwalker must be willing to starve to become one. The old man clearly wasn’t willing. This vengeful skinwalker, three days back among the living—first the old lady, then Ray. If this isn’t handled, none of you will survive."

His words sent a chill through the crowd. Aunt Sharon whimpered, clutching her rosary so tight her knuckles turned white.

Aunt Sharon was so scared she collapsed to the ground. "We—we didn’t starve that old man for that many meals! Besides, he agreed to it!"

She sobbed, rocking back and forth on her knees. Uncle Pete tried to help her up, but she batted his hands away, lost in her own fear.

Mr. Carter ignored Aunt Sharon and turned to look at me. "Maddie, did your grandpa say anything else?"

His eyes were gentle, but his voice was firm. I shook my head, tears streaming down my face, afraid to remember.

I covered my ears, too afraid to speak. That chewing sound was always at the back of my neck, and the choking smell of whiskey kept drifting into my nose.

It was everywhere, suffocating and inescapable. I wanted to run, but my feet wouldn’t move. The world felt small and dangerous.

Uncle Pete squatted down, looking into my eyes. "Maddie, don’t be scared. Tell Mr. Carter."

His voice was soft, steady. I took a shaky breath, trying to find the words.

I lowered my hands and slowly repeated the old voice’s words, hiccuping as I spoke. "Three hungers, five fulls, still short three meals."

The words tasted like ashes in my mouth. The crowd gasped, some crossing themselves, others muttering prayers.

"What! Still needs to eat three more people? That old man! Only your third brother was decent..." Aunt Sharon shrieked. Uncle Mike frowned and told her to hush.

Her voice was shrill, echoing off the tent walls. Uncle Mike snapped at her, but she just sobbed harder, burying her face in her hands.

"Mr. Carter, what do we do now?" Uncle Mike’s face was pale, as if he hadn’t expected this either.

He looked lost, like a little boy who’d lost his way. Mr. Carter just shook his head, his eyes hard.

Mr. Carter glanced thoughtfully at Aunt Sharon, then called Uncle Mike over. "Come look at this casket."

He beckoned them closer, his voice low and urgent. Aunt Sharon hesitated, but Uncle Pete pulled her along, his grip firm.

Aunt Sharon squeezed forward too, and Uncle Pete pulled me along a few steps. The closer we got to the casket, the stronger the stench of whiskey became.

It was overpowering, making my eyes water. I pressed my sleeve to my nose, but it didn’t help. The smell was everywhere, thick and sickly sweet.

"Ray drowned in whiskey, so he got his wish—soaking in whiskey for life," Aunt Sharon muttered, wrinkling her nose as she peered into the casket.

Her words were bitter, edged with something like envy. She leaned in, peering over the edge, her face pale.

One look and Aunt Sharon turned pale and started vomiting.

She doubled over, retching onto the grass. The rest of us backed away, covering our mouths. Uncle Pete held her hair back, murmuring soothing words.

Uncle Pete clutched his chest, his hand holding mine trembling the whole time.

His grip was tight, almost painful. I looked up at him, searching for reassurance, but he just stared at the casket, eyes wide with fear.

I was too short to see inside the casket, but Grandpa’s voice kept echoing in my ears.

It was relentless, gnawing at the edges of my mind. I squeezed my eyes shut, wishing it would stop.

"Mmm... still hungry... want some fatty meat... smells so good... fried up, sizzling with grease—that’s the best!"

The words slithered through my thoughts, sticky and awful. I shivered, hugging myself tight.

I looked up at Uncle Mike’s plump belly, only to find Uncle Mike giving me a dark look.

His eyes were dark, unreadable. I wondered if he knew he was next, if he could feel Grandpa’s hunger closing in on him.

Before I could think any further, Mr. Carter cleared his throat and said, "Everyone has seen the casket. The old man’s body was kept for three days, but now he’s grown fangs. It’s obvious he’s become a vengeful skinwalker, and as soon as Ray was put in, he turned to a skeleton. That means the skinwalker’s resentment toward you all is very strong!"

The words sent a ripple of fear through the crowd. Some folks backed away, others pressed closer, desperate for answers.

"Mr. Carter, please help us!" Aunt Sharon cried, surrounded by vomit at her feet, reaching for Mr. Carter’s sleeve.

She clung to him, her voice high and desperate. Mr. Carter pulled away, his face set in a grim line.

Mr. Carter frowned and dodged, then looked straight at Uncle Pete. "Where’s your wife? Why haven’t I seen her all this time?"

The question hung in the air, sharp and unexpected. Uncle Pete’s face went pale, and the rest of us turned to look at him, waiting for an answer.