Chapter 4: The Water Cooler Ritual

"Quick, bring a big water cooler!"

One-Eyed Leonard shouted in panic:

"Sit him up on the ground, cover him with the empty cooler.

Bring me some candles."

Before he finished speaking, my other uncle, Uncle Wayne, and I rushed to carry the water cooler.

We nearly tripped over each other, scrambling to grab the big blue Igloo jug from the porch. Its faded stickers—NASCAR, Bass Pro Shops—peeled at the edges. It was heavy and awkward, sloshing with the last drops of yesterday’s ice water. Sweat poured down our faces as we hauled it to the backyard, dogs barking at our heels.

Aunt Brenda ran to the living room to get candles.

She threw open drawers, knocking over picture frames and old mail, finally grabbing a half-used box of Walmart birthday candles and a couple of fat white ones from the mantle. Her hands shook as she ran back outside, wax shavings trailing behind her.

In a hurry, we covered Uncle Darrell with the cooler.

The cooler made a hollow thump as it landed over him, like the lid on a coffin. I could hear the faint echo of his breath—or maybe it was just my own heart pounding in my ears.

Leonard lit the candles and placed them at the four corners around the cooler.

He fumbled with a lighter, the flame sputtering in the wind. The candles flickered, casting weird shadows across Darrell’s covered body. It felt like we were setting up for some kind of backwoods ritual, the kind you only hear about in whispered stories.

Finally, he stuck a yellow sticky note with a cross drawn on it to the cooler.

The sticky note looked almost ridiculous, like a child’s drawing, but Leonard pressed it on with a solemn nod. He muttered something under his breath, eyes squeezed shut.

After all this, he looked up at Grandpa Joe and said:

"Joe, my abilities are limited. Covering Darrell with the cooler—this 'pulling a fast one on Old Scratch' trick won’t last long.

You still need to find an expert.

Before midnight tonight, there’s still hope to save him."

With that, he pulled Grandpa Joe into the living room, and the two spoke in hushed voices for a long time before coming out.

I tried to listen in, but all I caught were scraps—words like "soul," "river," and "danger." The tension in the house was thick enough to choke on.

Grandpa Joe walked over to the water cooler and spoke solemnly, making eye contact with each of us:

"I’ll go get an expert now.

Leonard, whatever needs preparing, write it down and have Wayne go buy it.

No matter the cost, I have to save Darrell.

He’s my own son!"

His voice trembled, but there was steel in it. Aunt Brenda squeezed his arm, nodding fiercely. Even the youngest cousins looked up, sensing how serious things had gotten.

As soon as he finished, Grandpa Joe hurried out the gate on his old pickup truck.

The engine roared to life, gravel flying as he sped down the driveway. Aunt Brenda watched until the truck disappeared, then hurried back inside, her face set with determination.

Aunt Brenda quickly found paper and a pen and handed them to Leonard.

She dug through the kitchen junk drawer, finally pulling out a stained notepad and a half-broken pen. Leonard sat down at the picnic table, scribbling furiously, pausing every so often to mutter and cross things out.

Leonard wrote for a long time, then handed the paper to Uncle Wayne and said:

"Wayne, hurry and buy these things.

You must get exactly what I asked for—don’t make any mistakes."

Uncle Wayne took the paper, nodding over and over:

"Okay, I’ll take Ethan to town now..."

He looked at me, eyes wide, but Leonard shook his head.

"You go alone."

Leonard cut him off:

"Ethan has something else to do."

Wayne hesitated, then tucked the list into his shirt pocket and jogged to his old Ford, tires squealing as he pulled away. I stood there, unsure what was coming next, the whole yard buzzing with nervous energy.