Chapter 3: Rules for the Dead

Grandpa’s face stayed stone-cold. “Old woman, bring out the chicken.”

Grandma came out of the storage room, carrying the chicken in our battered iron dog basin. The whole bird was barely cooked—skin pale, blood still streaked, feathers clinging in patches. Pink juice pooled at the bottom.

Grandma’s hands shook so bad she nearly dropped it. Some of the bloody water sloshed over the rim.

She set the basin on the table and stumbled back, tripping over the door frame.

The old woman’s eyes flashed green and glassy in the porch light, hungry and wrong.

Just as she reached for the meat, Grandpa knocked the basin with the back of his hand. The chicken landed in the dirt, rolling in gravel and dust.

The old woman shot him a glare that could curdle milk. The air went cold and heavy.

Grandma tugged his sleeve, voice trembling. “Old man, you trying to get us killed? That’s something that eats people!”

Grandpa slammed his fist on the table. “No animal eats at my table. Not alive, not dead. That’s the rule.”

The old woman glared, then dropped to all fours, crawling after the meat. She moved like her bones were on backward, folding in ways no person should.

She crouched low, hands clawing at the meat, shoveling it in so fast her jaw popped. The sounds—wet, crunching—made my stomach twist.

She never took her eyes off us. Not once. Like she was picturing something else.

From her throat came laughter—"Hehe... hehe..."—deep and echoing, like it came up from the bottom of a well.

Soon, she’d finished every scrap—not even a bone left. Swallowed them whole, maybe, or they just melted away.

She patted her belly, voice sing-song and wrong. “Still hungry... so hungry... Young man, bring out your family’s mutton. Just a bite, and I’ll leave. Cross my heart.”

Uncle Jake’s voice broke. “Dad, hurry—give her the mutton, send her off before she does something worse!”

Grandpa glared, voice sharp. “Candles aren’t burned out yet. We wait. There’s an order to this.”

Uncle Jake stomped, near tears. “She said she’ll go! Let her eat and get out! Who cares about candles?”

Grandpa shook his head. “Don’t trust her. Ghosts lie. It’s all they know.”

Suddenly, the old woman was beside Uncle Jake. She hadn’t walked—just blinked into place. She let out that laugh again, shoulders shaking, face still as stone.

Her voice was strange—a child’s and an old woman’s, tangled together. “Your daddy’s selfish. Doesn’t care if you die. Never loved you like your brother.”

Her teeth looked sharp now, filed to points. Her words crawled under my skin.

Uncle Jake’s eyes went blank, like he was sleepwalking. He pushed past Grandpa, heading for the storage room.

Grandpa lunged, trying to stop him, and Grandma joined in, but Uncle Jake tossed them aside like they were weightless.

He grabbed the mutton out of the pot, bare-handed, water boiling around his wrists. Steam rose, the meat half-cooked and bloody.

The candles were only halfway gone, wax dripping slow.

Grandpa scrambled up, voice hoarse. “Jake! Snap out of it! The candles aren’t done! You’re breaking the rules!”

But Uncle Jake didn’t hear. He dumped the mutton on the table. The old woman lunged, jaw unhinging wide as a trap, and crammed the meat inside.

The eighteen candles snuffed out all at once—like a giant hand pinched them. The darkness felt thick, pressing in.

She laughed, greasy and red dripping down her chin. “Hehe...”

Grandpa’s voice shook. “Quick—get inside. Now. Everyone.”