Chapter 2: Bound by Blood and Debt

The ride was silent, tense. My dad slumped beside me, eyes closed, breathing ragged.

Not long after we started driving, my dad convulsed, spewing thick, black smoke from his mouth.

I recoiled, pressing against the door. The smoke curled around the car, heavy and foul.

The stench was unbearable—like roadkill left out in July. Everyone covered their mouths, choking, but the driver kept going. No one dared stop with Mr. Whitaker’s car leading the way.

I gagged, tears streaming down my face. The men in black looked sick, but no one said a word.

We reached the cemetery. Everyone put on masks to haul my dad out. I followed, crying, shaking his arm.

The cemetery was quiet, the only sound the crunch of gravel underfoot. My dad looked worse than ever, his skin almost gray.

“Dad, wake up! Dad, are you okay—”

I shook him, desperate. His eyelids fluttered, but he didn’t respond.

He lifted a hand to my head, but as soon as he opened his mouth, more black smoke poured out. Then he fainted.

I screamed for help, but the men just watched. Mr. Whitaker stood back, arms crossed, face unreadable.

Not far off, old Mr. Jenkins in his windbreaker shook his head. “So much death energy—how’s he supposed to test a grave? What’s he gonna draw out, the Devil himself? Useless.”

His voice carried across the cemetery, sharp and judgmental. I glared at him, but he just shrugged.

Mr. Whitaker grew anxious. “So what now? Pastor Monroe, didn’t you say we can’t swap out the grave sleeper? Is my perfect burial plot ruined?”

He looked at Pastor Monroe, desperation creeping into his voice. The spiritualist’s name was on the line.

Pastor Monroe—probably the spiritualist—looked me over. “Who’s the kid—his son?”

His gaze was piercing, like he could see right through me.

“This is Mr. Sanders’ boy.”

The men in black nodded, stepping back. All eyes were on me now.

Pastor Monroe nodded. “Strong bloodline—no choice. Let the kid take over for now. In two days, we’ll see if we can find someone else.”

He said it like it was nothing—just another day’s work. My heart pounded in my chest.

They wanted me to lie in the grave.

I stared at them, stunned. The idea seemed insane, but nobody else protested. My hands shook.

Seventeen—just old enough to think I could handle anything. Hearing Mr. Whitaker’s request, I didn’t flinch. I even bargained—told him to get my dad a doctor first.

I tried to sound tough. They laughed anyway.

Pastor Monroe snorted. “No doctor can save your dad. If you finish the job and break the connection, he’ll recover. If you fail, you’ll both be headed to the afterlife. Either way, nothing to lose.”

His words chilled me. I glanced at my dad, barely breathing. I knew I had no choice.

Two nights. That’s all it would take to save Dad?

It sounded simple, but my gut twisted. I thought of all the stories my dad had told me, all the warnings I’d ignored.

Thinking of his half-shadow, the purple splotches, the black smoke, I started to believe him. My dad’s condition was beyond medicine.

I swallowed hard, nodding. “Take care of my dad. I’ll do it.”

I squared my shoulders, trying to look braver than I felt. Mr. Whitaker nodded, satisfied.

I thought I’d be lying in the same grave Mr. Whitaker picked. But after I agreed, someone blindfolded me, grabbed my arm, and led me a long way.

The blindfold was rough, the hand on my arm firm. I stumbled, gravel crunching beneath my sneakers. The air grew colder as we walked.

It felt like we were going downhill forever, gravel crunching underfoot. After what felt like half an hour, they took off the blindfold.

My eyes blinked in the sudden sunlight. I took a deep breath, the air sharp and clean.

I squinted in the sun, trying to get my bearings. I was at the bottom of a canyon. Rocky cliffs rose on both sides, streaked with orange and red, dotted with moss. The valley floor was a lush green lawn, almost too bright to look at.

The colors were unreal—like stepping into a postcard from Arizona. This wasn’t what Ohio was supposed to look like. Birds called overhead, and the grass smelled sweet, almost out of place at a grave site.

I’d read about places like this—painted canyons out West. Didn’t expect a grave site to look so beautiful.

The contrast between the wild beauty and the job I was about to do made my skin prickle. I felt small, swallowed by the landscape.

Pastor Monroe looked proud. “Didn’t expect this, huh? This is the bottom of a seasonal lake. Every February and March, when the water dries up, you can come down here.”

He spoke like a tour guide, gesturing at the cliffs. I tried to picture the place underwater, silent and hidden.

The hole under the lake is called the ‘Hidden Dragon,’ or ‘Dragon Vein Abyss.’ Water means wealth. A water dragon guards the grave, bringing fortune and protection for generations.

His words sounded mystical, but his tone was matter-of-fact. I wondered how much of it he actually believed.

I didn’t get all his spiritual talk, but I could tell this was a rare spot. No wonder Mr. Whitaker wouldn’t let it go.

I glanced at the cliffs, feeling the weight of the place. It was special, even if I didn’t understand why.

As the sun set, I followed my dad’s instructions, changed into the linen robe, and got ready to lie in the grave.

The robe scratched at my skin. The air bit through me. I tried to remember every step my dad had taught me, heart pounding.

I remembered peeking from behind a tree, watching him work. I never believed in it—thought he was just conning people, and it embarrassed me. Plus, it looked boring as hell.

I used to sneak glances from behind a tree, rolling my eyes at the rituals. Now, every detail seemed important.

But he’d drawn all the steps in a notebook and made me read it every week. I knew them by heart.

The notebook was dog-eared, pages stained with coffee and dirt. I carried it in my backpack, just in case.

At midnight, enter the grave. First, scatter a circle of rice mixed with ash around the grave—like leaving a peace offering for whatever’s down there. Folks around here say it keeps the bad spirits out.

The rice felt cool in my hand, the ash gritty. I sprinkled it carefully, whispering a silent apology to whatever might be watching.

At one, light incense.

The smell drifted up, sharp and smoky, curling into the night air. It made my eyes water.