Chapter 7: The Slithering Remains

After switching rooms, I slept like a baby—first good sleep I’d had in years.

My brother’s bed was soft, with real sheets, nothing like my old cot with rusty springs.

Next morning, Uncle Marcus waited by the door, sunlight at his back. "See? Told you it’d be fine. You believe me now?"

I blushed, embarrassed for doubting him. He’d always been good to us kids.

Mom’s voice cut through, sharp as ever, calling me to help with cooking. Folks would be coming soon for the funeral, and she wouldn’t tolerate a late meal—not with all the gossip around here.

I ran to her, my heels smacked the cold linoleum, the sound echoing in the cramped kitchen.

But when I reached the big pot, my blood froze. Hundreds—maybe thousands—of snake heads littered the floor, their dead eyes staring.

I looked to Mom, panic rising, but she shot me a glare that could peel paint.

She hissed, "Don’t say a word. If Uncle Marcus finds out, I’ll beat you to death, buckle and all. He says no snake meat for funerals—it draws the wrong spirits. But food’s food, and groceries cost a fortune. Folks’ll think it’s pulled pork, so keep your mouth shut."

Stomach churning, I scooped up the snake heads and skins, stuffing them into an old feed sack. When Uncle Marcus wasn’t looking, I crept into the woods out back, tossing the sack deep into the undergrowth. As I tossed the sack deep into the woods, I swear I heard something slither through the leaves behind me—something that wasn’t done with us yet.