Chapter 4: Bones, Betrayal, and the Last Howl

For days, things were calm.

The snow began to melt, and the house felt warmer. I almost let myself believe it was over.

One night, a thunderstorm crashed down. Lightning split the sky.

The windows rattled, and the wind howled. I crawled into bed, pulling the covers up to my chin.

I snuggled close to Grandpa, scared.

His arm wrapped around me, warm and safe. The thunder shook the house, but I felt better with him beside me.

Grandpa said, "Don’t be afraid. I’d give my life to protect you. You’re my blood."

His voice rumbled in his chest, steady and sure. I clung to him, breathing in the smell of tobacco and soap.

I didn’t really get it.

I was too young to understand what it meant to give your life for someone. But the way Grandpa said it made me believe he would.

That year, I was seven.

The world was still full of things I didn’t understand—wild spirits, old family rules, and the way grief could hollow out a house.

I thought I heard the sound of dogs howling.

The wind carried the sound, long and lonely. I pressed my face into Grandpa’s chest, trying to block it out.

"Grandpa, I hear dogs."

My voice was small, almost lost in the storm. I shivered, clutching the bear oil tight.

Grandpa covered my ears. "You’re just dreaming. Go to sleep."

His hands were warm, blocking out the world. I closed my eyes, wishing the howling would stop.

Uncle Travis came in, face pale. "Dad, Duke’s here. I can smell him—I’m scared."

He stood in the doorway, eyes wide. The fear in his voice made me shiver all over again.

Footsteps echoed in the yard. Like someone pacing.

They crunched in the snow, slow and heavy. I held my breath, listening.

Next morning, Grandpa opened the door. Found Dale standing in the yard, holding a white bone.

The sky was gray, the air sharp with cold. Dale’s boots were muddy, and his face was drawn. Eyes haunted.

"Frank, I saw Duke digging up your family’s grave."

His voice shook, and he held out the bone like it was proof of some awful secret.

"This bone—I yanked it right out of his mouth."

He waved it in the air, hands trembling. The bone was long and thin, stained with dirt.

Grandpa slung the shotgun over his shoulder. Didn’t use it.

He looked at Dale, then at the bone, face hard as stone. "Let’s go."

"Let’s go see," Grandpa said, voice cold.

He led the way, boots crunching in the snow. The rest of us followed, silent.

We walked to the old family plot and found a huge hole in my great-granddad’s grave. Yellow fur was everywhere. The remains and old casket wood were scattered all around.

The grave looked like it had been clawed open by something desperate. The air smelled of earth and something wild. I covered my nose, fighting the urge to cry.

Grandpa slowly gathered the bones and put them back.

His hands were gentle, almost reverent. He whispered something under his breath, maybe a prayer, maybe a curse.

"Damn you, Duke. I’ll never forgive you."

His voice was raw, full of grief and anger. The words hung in the air, sharp as broken glass.

Grandpa fired a shot into the sky.

The sound cracked through the morning, scattering crows from the trees. It echoed for miles, a warning and a farewell all at once.

Bang!

The echo faded, leaving only silence. I shivered, clutching my bear oil tight.

Dale jumped, nerves shot. He helped fill in the grave, hands shaking.

We worked together, piling dirt back over the bones. When we finished, the grave looked whole again, but nothing felt the same.