Chapter 7: The Promise

Whenever the snakes were almost gone, my mom would have Uncle Ray call the three-colored snake into my sister’s room again and again. I lost track of how many times.

Uncle Ray came by with his old Bible and a bundle of strange herbs, muttering prayers at the back door. Every time, Mom’s face lit up with anticipation. Hannah, though, just faded more—her eyes dulling, her laughter disappearing. I tried not to think about what went on behind that locked door.

My sister grew paler with every passing day, until one night she slipped into my room in the dark.

It was late—way past midnight. The air was sticky, but a chill clung to her, like she brought the cold in with her. She stood by my bed, a shadow outlined by the dim light from the streetlamp outside.

I’d been sleeping soundly, but the cold air coming off her—in the middle of July—froze me awake.

Goosebumps raced up my arms. I pulled the covers tight, heart hammering as I tried to make sense of her presence.

I took a deep breath and looked at her. Before I could say a word, she asked, “How old are you now?”

Her voice was a whisper, but it cut through the dark like a knife. I blinked, rubbing sleep from my eyes, and tried to remember.

I scratched my head. “Seventeen. After New Year’s, I’ll be eighteen.”

The number sounded strange in my mouth—so close to grown, and yet I still felt like a child.

“Eighteen,” my sister repeated, her pretty eyes fixed on me, lost in thought.

She stared for a long time, as if weighing something heavy. The silence between us stretched, filling the room with unspoken fears.

After a long pause, she spoke again: “Almost eighteen. Then we can’t wait any longer. Do you remember what I told you?”

She sat on the edge of my bed, her hands trembling in her lap. I wanted to reach out, but I was scared she’d break. I could tell she was scared, and that scared me even more. I remembered her words—carved into my memory, sharp as glass.

All these years, the things my sister told me could be counted on one hand. When she said this, I remembered right away: she’d told me, don’t eat snake meat, not a single bite.

I nodded quickly. “Sis, I remember. All these years, I haven’t eaten any snake meat.”

I sat up straighter, desperate to prove myself. I wanted her to know I’d listened—that I could still be trusted.

She seemed to breathe a sigh of relief.

Her shoulders relaxed just a little, and a faint smile flickered across her lips. It was the first smile I’d seen in weeks.

“As long as you remember. You’ve done really well so far. From now on, you have to keep it up. Snake meat—don’t touch it, okay?”

She squeezed my hand, her fingers icy cold. Her eyes were pleading, full of something I couldn’t quite name—fear, hope, maybe love.

Her face was more serious than I’d ever seen. I nodded over and over. “I remember, I remember. Sis, don’t worry, I’ve remembered everything.”

I tried to sound brave, but my voice trembled. Still, I meant it.

After getting my promise, my sister slowly turned and left my room.

The door clicked shut behind her, leaving me wide awake, heart pounding in my chest. I watched the moonlight slide across the ceiling, knowing something had changed forever. I hugged my pillow tight, praying I’d have the strength to keep my word. But as the sun crept up, I heard the first hiss from under my own bed—and I realized the promise might not be enough.