Chapter 2: Fractures and Promises

I don’t know when it started, but my grandpa grew distant, showing little warmth toward the family.

He used to ruffle my hair or sneak me butterscotch candies from his coat pocket, but lately, he’d just sit on the porch for hours, staring down the valley toward the frozen river, pipe smoke curling around his head like he was hiding in his own fog. It felt like he was always waiting for something, or someone, none of us could see.

Grandma, still fuming, stamped her foot and yelled, “You must be losing it! Our house is halfway up the mountain, and the road’s blocked by snow. How could anyone possibly come?”

She gestured out the window, where the driveway disappeared under a heavy drift and the mailbox looked like a snow-capped mushroom. No mail truck would make it up here until spring, let alone some mysterious visitor.

Grandpa acted like he hadn’t heard her. He picked up the knife and started skinning the old goat.

He worked with the quiet, methodical skill of someone who’d done this a hundred times, his hands moving in practiced arcs, eyes hard and unblinking. The kitchen filled with the sharp, metallic scent of blood and winter air slipping through the cracks.

Her hands shook as she reached for the blade, knuckles pale against the handle. “Frank, please,” she begged, her voice thin and breaking. But she was too weak to stop him.

Her fingers, crooked from years of arthritis, closed around the handle for just a second before Grandpa’s grip overpowered her. She muttered a prayer under her breath, the kind you whisper when you’re scared but trying to sound strong.

He shoved her aside, nearly knocking her over. Coldly, he ordered, “Go boil some water. The goat meat needs to be stewed before nightfall.”

He didn’t even glance at her, just pressed the knife harder, his knuckles going white. Grandma steadied herself on the counter, shooting him a look that could have curdled milk.

Grandma frowned, her voice softer, “Frank, this goat’s bad news. We can’t eat it. Listen to me—bury it like a person, give it a name, put up a headstone, ask for forgiveness. That’s the only way this ends.”

She folded her arms across her chest, voice trembling with something more than anger—maybe fear, maybe grief. The goat had always seemed to understand her, following her from garden to porch like a loyal old dog. The thought of eating it made her skin crawl.

Grandpa scowled and snapped, “If you want to live, do what I say.”

He said it in that low, dangerous voice he saved for arguments he refused to lose. The kind that warned you not to push him, not tonight.

With that, he finished skinning the goat.

He was all business now, tossing the hide onto a tarp with a wet slap. The house was quiet except for the tap-tap of his knife and Grandma’s ragged breathing.

He hung the goat skin on the old clothesline by the porch. When the wind blew, the air was thick with the stench of goat and blood.

The skin flapped in the breeze like a warning flag, crimson drops splattering the snow beneath. Even the ravens perched in the birch tree watched in uneasy silence.

Grandma sighed, knowing his stubborn streak wouldn’t change.

She wiped her hands on her faded apron and looked down, defeated. Out here, once Grandpa made up his mind, there was no changing it—no matter how wrong it felt.

She took me into the laundry room to boil water. Gripping my shoulders, she whispered, “Eli, listen to Grandma. Tonight, don’t eat a single bite of goat—not even a taste. If you’re good, I’ll take you to town for fried chicken and caramel apples.”

She bent down so our eyes met, her hands trembling on my shoulders. The promise of fried chicken and caramel apples was as good as gold to me—visions of Main Street fairs and the sweet stickiness of candy apples flickered in my mind, momentarily distracting me from the dark heaviness in the house.

I nodded. “I know.”

I looked her straight in the eye, wanting her to see I meant it. Her blue eyes were shiny, the skin around them creased from years of smiling and worrying.

Seeing me agree, Grandma’s brow relaxed a little. She reminded me again, “Not even a bite, not even a sip of the broth.”

She squeezed my hand, a little desperate now, her voice so soft only I could hear. The house creaked with the wind, as if it, too, was listening in.

I whispered, “Don’t worry, Grandma. I won’t eat the goat or drink the broth. I’m scared of that old goat. When Grandpa killed it, I saw it—the way it looked at him, it was weird. It didn’t look like a goat at all, more like a person staring him down.”

The words tumbled out before I could stop them, my breath frosting in the cold laundry room. The memory of those eyes—unblinking, almost knowing—made my stomach clench.

As soon as I finished, Grandma’s face changed. She hugged me tight and whispered in my ear, “Eli, stay far away from your grandpa.”

Her arms wrapped around me, tight and desperate, smelling of Ivory soap and cinnamon. She pressed her lips to my ear, voice shaking. “Promise me, baby. Stay away from him tonight.”

I nodded. “I know.”

I could feel her heart beating fast, pounding through her threadbare sweater. I promised, even though I didn’t really understand why I needed to.