Creepy - The Dumb Supper

Episode Date: September 26, 2022

Dinner's ready...***Written by: The Eryn Brothers and Narrated by: Danielle Hewitt***Bonus episode: "I shouldn't have dumped her" written by RosaWrites***Content warning: abuse***Find our reward tiers and how to get your bonus magnet at patreon.com/creepypod***You can also subscribe to us on YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/creepypod***Sound Design by Pacific Obadiah***Title music by Alex Aldea Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information. Hosted by Simplecast, an AdsWizz company. See pcm.adswizz.com for information about our collection and use of personal data for advertising.

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Creepy presents, The Dumb Supper, written by the Aaron brothers, and narrated by Danielle Hewitt. First thing you need to know is that my grandmother died in 1977. Treebark Tough, gnarled from growing up in rural Arkansas. Granny Poppy knew which herbs worked for upset stomachs. to upset hearts. She sewed dolls and dresses for me and my sisters, made pumpernickel bread, taught us how to make apple butter. Granny Poppy was the queen of her farm kingdom, and we were loyal to her throne. Summer brought Mom loading us into a sweaty, wood-paneled station wagon to make the drive from Little Rock. Mom would tell my older sister, Priscilla, my younger sister, Mimi, and myself, June. To behave over-gravel.

and highway. Silla would then turn up the radio, the last churn of rock and roll washing over, baptizing herself in fog hat and baby soft. Crossing her arms at the country, she checked her makeup in her reflection of the car's windows last glimpse of civilization. At 17, Silla was swiping cigarettes from mom and stealing her clothes. Mimi and I, in overalls and jeans, excitedly watched the fireflies from the car windows, planning months of swimming holes, crawdad catching, and listening to Granny tell her stories. Mom was single, which meant she was free from our useless father. Between waitressing at night and the salon during the day,

she appeared only in puffs of Virginia Slims, panty hose, and wilted lacquered hair to restock the fridge or to yell at Silla. Silla took care of us in between making out with her boyfriend and sneaking into shows. It was my job to cook dinner. The bills were paid. Mimi was doing her homework. Going to Granny Poppies meant time was suspended in beautiful honey summer world, where responsibility did not weigh so heavy. While packing the night before our annual journey,

Mom came home early from waitressing tables, grim-faced, runny mascara. She was still in her uniform, skirt too short to be completely acceptable, the shoulders hanging off her skinny arms. In clouds of smoke and tears, mom managed to choke out that Granny Poppy had died. We all sat with her at the Formica table. Priscilla softly brushing Mom's hair while I made the last of our coffee. Mimi was on Mom's lap.

A bottle of whiskey sat next to an ashtray. The kitchen window was open, blowing an unbefitting cool breeze around us. In strange reverence, the city around seemed just as hushed as we were. Mom got drunk, and we tucked her into bed. Her body tiny with sorrow. And the next day, with weeping suitcases, we left to go take care of Granny Poppy's home. The car silently moved along the back roads,

twisted and turned like our collective familiar stomach. The once plushed trees now harbored their cracked limbs in sinister dance. The perfume of the country smelling of death and sadness. As the bony gravel roads popped under the station wagon's tires, I counted all the empty chimneys tucked into the land like errant gravestones. Granny said they stood long after the home was torn down because spirits would get stuck in the hearth. And if it were to be torn down, the spirits would follow you home.

The thought of my granny poppy being stuck in her home forever turned to my head. She would not be a bad spirit to have around. I imagined the fireplace would always be one. warm to the touch, like blood was inside of it. I believed in those things. Ghosts, spirits, haines in the holler. Granny told ghost stories from time to time, though I could tell it made her uneasy. She was a talented storyteller, but Mimi said it best.

She'd tell those stories looking over her shoulder. I loved them, though. The story of a girl with a ribbon tied around her neck. Her head tipping off when her husband unbelled. found her band, old rawhead. Or of the empty house, aching with ghosts, all of them gave me the wormy stomach akin to when my mom drove too fast downhill. My mother was not driving like the usual bat out of hell when we arrived at grannies.

The house looked like a jack-o-lantern with the candle blown out. Not even the fireflies were awake as we unpacked the car in the dark. My mother's hung overhand, jingling the keys into the doorknob. In your many lifetimes, you will experience a house no longer being a home. Be it by life or knife. We were surrounded by Granny Poppy, and I had to fight myself to not call out for her. We stood in the dark, watching the moon cataly into the house. Stillness confirmed what we did not want to believe.

Granny was truly gone. I think we were all hoping for a ghost that night. Mom broke the silence, her accent creeping in. You all hungry? She said it like hungry, like Poppy would have. Silla, holding herself up by her elbows, shook her head. No, thank you, Mama. We were not hungry or hungry.

We all went to bed, the tether of disbelief cradling us in sleep. The next day. Mom, with her hair high to God, gaunt and oddly more adult than I can imagine her now, went to the country coroner. Silla was put in charge of cleaning the house for guests, and Mimi and I were in charge of organizing the attic. Thankfully, I did not have to cook. Being in the kitchen and imagining my grandmother's hands needing bread or tasting homemade

gym made me dizzy with tears. The attic was a small one. The house itself was quaint. with three rooms, the third being an addition of my grandfathers, his last gift to Granny Poppy, a living room with a fireplace, and an oddly long front porch. We were sent to the attic because the bedrooms, like most country homes, did not have closets, and were sparsely furnished with only beds and side tables, decorated with a single Bible and lamp. Granny's room had a wardrobe. That was Mom's responsibility.

The attic was all brown shoe boxes full of old bills, broken knickknacks, a cracked mirror set in a beautiful wood carving, given to my grandmother by her mother-in-law. Soft dresses and earthly shades of brown with tiny flowers and old-fashioned cuts. Wood toys made out of spools and sticks, the occasional doll. Through our sifting we found a wooden box. It was not a large box, like the memorial boxes of days past. but about as long as a cat and as thick as a Dutch oven. I found myself getting excited. Does it need a key?

I love the thought of old love letters and relics of our grandparents. I needed to know what was in that box. Mimi pulled her hair up into a ponytail scowling. We were told to sort everything, Mimi. She stood up in front of the box. No, June, mom should go through this. This just, it feels important. I pushed her.

We have to sort everything. Mimi, who never had experienced violence for me beyond playfighting, fell over the box, tipping open the lid and its contents on the floor. It lay on its side, wounded in the mid-afternoon light. The single window in the attic bade it bloody. You okay, Mimi? I'm so sorry. Darkly pulling herself up, a slight pass of relief came over her face. She reached inside the box and pulled out a stack of letters, tied up with a neat ribbon, aged and brown.

In slight amends we spent the afternoon looking through stacks of letters. A mix of love, memory, and advice. After reading, we neatly wrapped them up again to save her mother. We were gathering everything up when I noticed it. The wood at the bottom of the carved box was a different color. from the dark oak that made its body. It was cheap in comparison to the hand-polished wood. And when I knocked against it, a hollow thump filled the room. What is that? Mimi whispered, excitedly making her eyes breach her cheeks.

It's a dummy door, I think. I wiggled my fingers around a loose edge of the fake bottom, and delighted at it popping open. Inside was a leather-bound journal. I saw, sucked in my breath as I showed my sister. Wordless, she sat down next to me and together we read. You cannot imagine the absolute delight that I felt when I opened the journal and found my granny Poppy had been writing down her stories. A simple inscription at the beginning made it clear. It was to be for us.

Here are my words. May they serve you better than me, Dumlins. All of our favorites were there. The chimneys. Women with ribbons, raw head, everything, trickster animals made appearances, and random recipe or two popped in. As we awed over our grandmother's neat lettering and plain speech, time became elusive again, honey. The end of the journal was odd.

The stories became half written, sparse. A paragraph would lose its partner, a sentence would lose its charm. We had almost reached the end of our newly found treasure when a final entry to. took shape. It was unusually not a story. Half recipe, half instruction. It read differently than Granny Poppy's other tales. Its odd title was the most intriguing, as the other stories were more poetically named. For instance, the ribbon story was titled, A Strange Courtship. This story was named The Dumb Supper. If a young girl is curious about marriage and wants to know her fight and partnership.

On Halloween night, have a dummy supper. This is where my job as a storyteller comes to an impasse. Against my better judgment, I am including here, my grandmother's words. A dumb supper requires many things, but mostly it requires patience.

First off, you need a house that is secluded, surrounded by trees. Secondly, you must start the work for a dummy supper and an appropriate hour, meaning the earlier the better. Odd numbers work best. You must make certain of not only your time,

but the number of women participating. Never have an even amount of women at a dumb supper, on account that you may get an unwanted visitor. You always run this risk of this with a dummy supper. But that's how the apple peels in soothsaying. The most important rule of a dumb supper is the easiest one to break. From start to finish, not a word is to be spoken aloud. The name may suggest a fool's dinner, and this is where you would be sadly mistaken.

As many, a foolish chit has found the hard way. But a dummy supper is meant to be mute and as silent as the dead. To begin, you must clean your house. Other folks say that everything must be done backward, sweeping dirt into the home, etc. But I am of the belief that if you are inviting anyone into your home, it's going to have to be clean. Doing it backward ain't going to do you a look of good. Wipe your windows, open them, and leave them open. Sweep every single room.

Mop your floors with lemon and lie. Salt the threshold right as the floor is drying for an extra late. protection. Then start making the pawn. To make the pawn, you need a married woman's wedding ring. The eldest girl in the room will get the water. The second eldest will put the cornmeal in a bowl. The third eldest will put them in the same bowl. The fourth will mix them, so on and so forth. Once the dough is built and ready for the skillet, pass the dough through the wedding ring, pinch by pinch. Build one pon at a time.

This task is done by the eldest, who hands the ring past dough to the next eldest, who forms it and shapes it, handing it over in the next in line to be fried. Each girl fries two corn-pone, one for her and one for the calling. Put your finished corn-pone in the oven to keep them crispy and warm for your guests.

When the pawn is done, the table must be seen. set. Each setting must be backward. The fork and knife switched, the napkin under the plate. You even have to walk to the table backward. Once at the table, the girl may turn around to make sure the setting is properly backward. There must be settings for each girl participating, and one next to her for the calling. The table doesn't have to be set too intricately, but it must look nice enough for you and your party to want to eat at. By this point, with all the cleaning and work that's been done,

it should be darker out. Silence either makes time move faster or grow still as a coffin, no in between. Light an odd number of candles. Take them to their resting places by walking backward. When does dinner get ate? This is very important. Not a bite of food has been eaten all day by this group cooking and cleaning. At three minutes to midnight, the girls must walk backward with their pon to their places at the table.

Make sure that all eyes are on the clock. When midnight arrives, the corn pone that is on her plate can be cracked between her two hands. Do not touch your guest's pawn. Not breaking the silence, each girl must take a single bite of the pawn and look at the nearest door leading outside from the table they are sitting at. This is when your calling guests should arrive. I have been to dumb suppers where the front door is blown open. Windows catch a cool breeze in the summer.

Winter windows spill out hot air. I have seen candles shushed by the silence. I have seen empty plates. But what you should see, that is up for the will to decide. If you look to the plate next to you and see nobody, there will be nobody in the future. So's the will. If you look to the plate next to you and see a man you recognize, this will be your husband. So's the will.

If you look to the plate next to you and see a dark, faceless figure, with your death, you'll be eating within the year. So's the will. I have attended dumb suppers and been told that a figure in black, with a face that lasts only for a second appears. The girl was married and widowed within a year. After attending many of these gatherings, I do not know which outcome is the best. I have not supped at the table of the dumb, but I know them to be true in their tellings.

Many a gal has swooned on hollow's eve to the winds of the supper, and many a maiden found her fortunes at its table. Beyond telling you the simple truth, that one must accept their fate as the will has it. instructions are best followed directly only the patient have the will to accept the true meal served and only the brave can stomach it underneath the final passage written in a red fading ink somehow more dark than its black sister was written make sure there are no knives at the table mimi was about to speak when another voice did it for her what's you looking at the words popped in the words popped in the words popped in like bubblegum and smelled of menthols. Priscilla.

Mimi looked suspicious. I felt the same. Something in me made me uncertain of sharing our new, albeit strange, treasure with Priscilla. Before coming up with a lie or a truth, I felt the journal get pulled out of my hands by my older sister's freshly painted nails. Mimi knocked my knee, head shaking subtly back and forth, hoping for Priscilla's ignorance. I slyly put a finger to my lips. It's not that I didn't want to share the stories with my sister.

It was the dumb supper and the ominous message that made me afraid. So we sat on the attic floor as the sun left the windows, turning Priscilla into a teenage silhouette, all of us waiting for her to be bored of the journal. Dumb supper? What is this shit that Poppy would come up with? Pages flipped in her bare hands, loud and offensive. Corn Pone?

Is that what she used to make us for breakfast with the maple syrup? Mimi nodded. Priscilla accosted the journal, each snap feeling like a slap. Finally, the sigh we were waiting for came. I miss Granny too, but sometimes the things that came into that woman's head. She was old. Gonna miss those corn pones. You figure that you can make them for us, June?

I looked up at Priscilla, fighting. the urge to laugh at the fact that she got made up, all eye shadow and lipstick, to clean our dead grandmother's house. I nodded. Priscilla gave me a sad look and a sweet side smile. Handing me back the journal, she said, Dinner's ready. Mimi and I, excited by the prospect of food, hustled to the kitchen, where the casseroles were already beginning to arrive. More cheese and cream of mushroom soup and green beans than a body could handle. Layers of ham and potatoes, summer pies with strawberries, as if starch and sugar could cure our loss. One plate, from the widow adultery, was rustic with

cornedone, each set with a delicate maple leaf candy. For the illustrious poppy's family, my condolences on your loss, and my thanks to your granny for introducing me to my husband and for the years of friendship after. Through cornmeal and coincidence, Mimi and I gave each other a knowing look as our mother, imposing and black hosery came into the kitchen. Taking off her sunglasses and snowing cigarette ash, mother began to ask about the house cleaning

and told us about the coroner and the town funeral director. About as crazy as a shithouse rat, bless his heart. She sat at the table picking a casserole, and he told her about the box of letter, skipping over the information about the journal. Luckily, Priscilla had snuck out to smoke a menthol, so Mimi and I felt secure in our secret. Mom poured herself a whiskey.

Mimi ran up to the attic to grab the letters, and to take the journal I slyly handed to her under the table to our room. I leaned my chair back up against the fireplace. It was empty and it ached against summertime heat. I touched the stone absid-mindedly, curious to see how far I could stretch my arm. The stone was warm to the touch, not cool like I had expected.

A summer gale can heat a house faster than a stove some nights, I told myself. That's what Granny Poppy would have said. The chair groaned against my pubescent body as I lowered back into a lady-like sitting position after noticing the glare emanating from my mother. The endless cigarette was perched in her lips, rude against her fine features.

Squinting at me, glass of whiskey resting in her tongue. Mom drags smoke into her lungs. June, when we get back, we... She paused to exhale. Are putting you on a D-I-E-T. Diet. I hope to God you fit into the dress I bought you today. I look down at my stomach, full at the compassion of Granny Poppy's friends.

past my round belly were sneakers that only remembered they were once soapy white. My knees were covered in scars. My shorts were torn. I refused to allow the tears brewing up in my eyes to escape and looked at my mother. Defiant and stone-faced, I nodded, stood up and passed Mimi as I made my way to our room. Two black dresses lay on the bed. I picked up the larger one. It's waist huge.

The sleeves ballooned and long. A tear dropped on the white collar, the pure stain a human can make. I watched it disappear into the cloth, hugging the garment close to me. It's gentle second-hand smell comforting and sad all at once. The open window created a wind that gently touched my hair and I let the sobs come. My granny poppy's funeral was the first one I attended. I remember crying, the stoic faces of my mother and Priscilla. I remember how strong my hand felt as Mimi clutched at it, approaching our grandmother's coffin.

I remember hearing the summer rain pelting down as we looked on our granny's face one last time. I remember she looked so stern. I remember Mimi kissing her goodbye. And I remember being afraid to. I remember standing by my grandfather's grave, reading his epithet. Here lies Alfonso Buregard, Cyrus. He tilled the earth till he lay in it. Next to his gravestone lay the dreaded hole that would hold my grandmother.

Her tombstone red, clear against the lazy-smelling rain. Here lies Poppy Rose Cyrus, beloved mother and friend. So's the will. Until we will meet again. The reception was jarring. I'd never seen Poppy's house so full. It was a swirl of Swiss colony wine smiles, casserole hugs, nicotine condolences. Soft southern whispers when we walked by.

Ruddy shoulder grabs, laughter. Stories of Granny Meat and Pappy. He tried to short her greens at the market. And she went to his farm, muddy, with gun in hand, to get what she felt owed. He married her within a month. Stories of Granny Poppy nursing croup and giving young mother's rest were bounced and swaddled. Stories of her candied apples in the fall rested on paper plates. Stories of marching down dirt roads to make sure that the poorest family in the county had a Thanksgiving dinner, drink wine on the porch.

I heard a whispered story of a tea my granny poppy made to help a young woman with an accident. I didn't know what sort of accident required tea. Maybe she fell down and hurt her ankle or something. Mimi explained to me later, standing by a table full of food. I shifted in my dress, my tomboy limbs itched with impatience. It felt odd to be in Granny's house full and bursting, and yet so disconnected from the actuality of our gathering. Looking down at the table, tired and bored of being in a dress.

I noticed it. Every single plate on the tiny table was a corn dish. More corned pon, some talk. topped with maple candies, some topped with blueberry preserves. Poppy helped me with these jars, and they're just as sweet as she is, was and always will be. Many condolences, Mrs. Ledbetter. Corn muffins from Mrs. Rayburn and a corn pudding, sweet and crunchy from the widow Jasper, sat next to them. Each dish had a note thanking Granny Poppy, mostly for introduced husbands.

Mimi noticed the notes too and quickly poked her on every table and surface with food. When she came back, the answer was known intuitively between us. None of the other dishes came with notes. Before we could start interrogating the widows, Priscilla came up, knocking over cups in her wake. Mom told me to check on you. She slurred, ruffling Mimi's hair with her free hand, and then grabbed a handful of cornbone. She ate it with sloppy fervor. After finishing three of them, she said,

Meet me by the Workhouse. The workhouse was our Pappy's Carpenter's Workshop, full of his wood, tools, final projects. The rain spat as we made our way out, away from the house and the questions there. What do you think the note? Mimi was cut off by our eldest sister, dramatically entering the shed,

hands full of cups and a sherry jug. Let's drink you jerks. We ain't kids anymore. With a surprisingly steady hand, she poured each of us a cup. She held hers up and took a drag of her cigarette. To Poppy. She was one hell of a woman. I drank quickly.

The taste of the sherry lingering like a rotten apple. We told our stories there. A country of three. The story of Granny chasing a squirrel out of Priscilla's room with a frying pan. The story of Granny driving around. with a trunk full of oranges. It was a hell of a deal at the store. We grieved like a pack.

We howled with laughter and we cooed with remorse. Sometimes I wish I were still in that shed, my memory making us blurred and pretty. That's not how this story ends. I wish it did. In the early afternoon we stumbled out of the shed, and the last of the mourners were waving goodbye to our mother, skeletal and regal in her tight black dress.

She waved back at them, the last of her lipstick waving goodbye to her face as she took another sip of whiskey. The red clung to the rim of the glass and she stared at it, as Mimi barreled over to Mom, hugging her high-heeled legs. I love you, Mama.

She said, buzzed from Sherry and crying. Mub hugged her back. Let's get inside, y'all. This storm's going to get worse before it gets better. We all trailed inside behind her, the new matriarch of our clan. Our mother's hair was proud, a crown hanging heavy under a smell of people and fried food. She sat at the dining room table, Mimi and I quickly cleaning the table of random food debris.

Mom grabbed Priscilla's handbag and pulled out a pack of cools, got a cigarette. She handed it back to Priscilla. Try not to smoke menthol's baby doll. They hurt you after old. while. Nodding, Priscilla took one, too. They lit them at the same time. Rights of passage are weird. Mother leaned back, arms crossed. It's funny, she said after a stretch of silence. How much you miss. She exhaled looking around the house full of memories, crushing the cigarette and the ashtray. Her arms stopped holding her up, and her hands covered her face. The sobs made her

look small. Noises came out that humanized her to a point that I was uncomfortable with. No longer the imposing figure in our lives. Absent-mindedly, I touched the fireplace. The stone was still warm under my hand. I don't want to get old. I don't want to be alone. I never wanted to be alone.

Our mother's shoulders continued to shake. her children, a single unit of anxiety, looked to the other helpless. Then Priscilla said the words that changed everything. What if we could see if you won't be alone, Mama? My hand snapped away from the fireplace. Mimi was pale as bone. Mama lifted her head up, makeup smeared.

What do you mean, Silla? Priscilla snuffed out her cigarette, stood up, and marched to our room. The sneak. She came back with the journal. Mimi removed herself from Mom and came over to me. I grabbed her hand. Mimi whispered,

I don't like this, Junie. I squeezed her hand back. I didn't either. Priscilla opened the journal. Mom's drunk eyes read, A dumb supper? Mama only mentioned this to me once. She never.

Priscilla looks smug. I found it. Let's do it. It'll be a nice game. Mom looked up at her, smiling. Maybe this is how Mama set up her friends with those husbands and theirs. Priscilla nodded. As they started talking, the clock struck four. I was trembling as I interrupted them. I don't think we should do it, Mama.

Granny Poppy says you've got to follow the instructions. And we have an even amount of people. and the time isn't right. And Priscilla snapped at me, lips adult. It's just a damn game, June. Let's have some fun. Poppy wouldn't have wanted Mama to be over here crying, would she? Mimi looked at me, childishly understanding Silla's logic. It was lies to cover grief. As many lies are birthed into this world. I shook my head. Ain't right, and you know it. Priscilla sneered. at me. Well, we're doing it, whether you like it or not. She began talking to mom about how to set it up.

Mom wiped her face with a handkerchief, reapplied lipstick and mascara, powdered her nose, got ready for her future that didn't include us. They would be the only ones to set plates at the dumb supper. Priscilla decided that we could reuse the pawn gifted to us by one of the widows. So we didn't have to use a wedding ring. Granny Poppy was buried with hers, and our mother's wedding ring had been stolen by dad after a stint at the racetracks. Mimi and I would be in charge of cleaning. Priscilla counted us down into our silence, at half after five. I shivered and with only the noise of my cheap black dress swirling around me, began to clean the house. Mimi opened the windows. The summer storm blew its fragrant body

into the home. We put away the casseroles and mysterious corn dishes, brush-grossed, crumbs off the table. We moved his two different arms on the same body. I swept and salt at the front door, thickly, a big white line standing tall against the wood floor. I mopped with lemon and salt. Mimi arranged vases of flowers for the table. As she set the blooms on the table, I gave her a misty smile. She looked just like Poppy, the empty fireplace framing her. Mom and Silla sat silently at the table, chain smoking and drinking coffee. Cleaning took a while. Cleaning is always faster with words, with singing, with laughter. However, I took my time because I had hoped that my older family members would tire their game and go to bed. They did not. When the house was clean enough, mom and Silla started

setting their plates. Puppet-like, legs jerking, their feet barely left the floor. A snuck look over the shoulder caused them to wobble. A neck would snap back into attention. A knee would jerk again as a foot would scoot across the floor. It was as natural and unnatural as watching a beetle die, the last movements of life elegant and broken in simultaneous ironic gore. I still dream about them walking backwards toward the table. Their faces smudged like dirty windows. They each took a plate one at a time. Mimi and I made up a plate of corn-pone and handed it to Priscilla. She smiled at us as she walked backward toward the table. Her silly grin, eerie in the growing darkness.

When the dumb supper was set, it was eleven at night. Trees beat against the house their terrifying blood rhythm. The rain threw itself against the roof. The wind became oddly cold. Mom gestured to us. A gesture we knew all too well. An impatient hand movement. Her nails looking claw-like in the emotions embrace.

She wanted to get the show on the road. Her mouth opened, and Mimi immediately hushed her by putting her finger to her mouth. The silence could not be broken. It was the one rule Mimi and I did not want to break out of the many rules that Poppy had set up for us that had been broken. Mom looked at us, saltily. I desperately wished for her to give up and go to her room to sleep. But I was also afraid of that. What if the motions made?

were too far set to be broken. It would be cliche to say that the silence hung over us, but it did. It was thick and buttery. Mimi lit candles. The ruddy glow fought against the darkness of the house. The flowers on the table looked like a wedding cake. We stood by the table at the fireplace,

next to an empty place setting, afraid to sit at the dumb supper. Mom and Silla stood in the kitchen, the glow of their cigarettes, orange eyeballs in the dark. How could silence move like molasses, and yet time moved rodent fast? I looked at the clock. It read three minutes till midnight. Mom and Priscilla looked at each other, put out their cigarettes, turned around in unison, and began their backward puppet walk to the table.

Mimi found my hand. I bit my lip. We were a broken mirror, reflecting our many familial eyes and guts. 11.59. The storm bowed for a quiet moment. I sucked in my breath. You could hear the clock pushing time forward as it pulled reality into the past. Silla smiled at Mom and midnight struck. They broke their corn pone, passing one half to the plate that was empty next to them. The front door blew open. The storm screamed at our house. The curtains throbbed against the walls. The Fireplace behind me felt like an icebox. Every candle cowered to the wind, silencing the light. Mimi squeezed my hand and anchor against the ship we could not stop. She pointed to the table. I could feel her shaking through my own arm.

A single night rested, cozy and deadly between our mother and sister. My mother's eyes were wide, and she smiled at the plate next to her. You are handsome. But I cannot see your face, only for a moment. She gasped, clutching the table, her eyes fixed and cat huge. The chair was empty. Priscilla was staring, unfocused at her guest's plate. I knew it would be you. The room began to stink of meat, of smoke, of burnt leaves and hair.

Mimi and I were unable to move our bodies. A fear so deep that. our human terror outweighed our animal fear and instinct to run. It was Mimi who broke the silence, screaming. Her fingers trembled to the front door. Neither Mom nor Silla was paying attention. They were frozen in fascination by their invisible guests. I whipped my head to the door and saw the thing my sister was pointing at.

A huge, slithering shadow. Its glittering, rancid-smelling black outline dancing constantly around itself. vomiting its energy out and back into its slenderous shape. It laughed at us, our fragility, and how easy it would be to taste, rip, and bite. How easy it would be to tear us all apart. I wrenched myself away from Mimi, regret pumping through me. Our connection soiled, and felt myself running to the table to grab the knife before it could. I was barely away from the fireplace when I was pushed down, the cold unlawful.

undulating touch of it, making a home on my skin. Its many hands, its acrid breath violated my limbs and mouth, made me understand that I could no longer be my own, only its vessel. I heard Mimi screaming as I watched Silla and Mother talk to their ghosts, pushing myself off the ground, using the cold stones from the fireplace to help guide me to my feet. I use the last of my agency to stand. Mimi was at the head of the table. staring at the chair, tears rolling down her face smiling. Help, she whispered. I saw nothing but felt the warmest summer breeze carrying the smell of sage and bread,

of lemon and lie, of love, of granny. Mimi ran into it, and for a second, it looked like someone had lit a birthday candle inside of her. I stood at the fireplace, cold, so cold. The black ice and polluted smell of it moved in me. Ready for knife, ready to consume, to sever. I knew its teeth without seeing them. I knew its wants. Rend and rip and thrust and taste and crunch and bleed and suck and lick and tear, tear,

tear, went screaming through my head and bones as I watched Mimi and her birthday candle heart. The warm wind came through, summer hot, swimming hole warm. The blackness, the icy, slimy, cold thing was in my throat and lips ready to crawl. Rend and rip and rip-ho and thrust and lick and stab. I felt my body flip around without control. So I was facing the flu of the fireplace. My legs started moving backward, puppet-like, becoming the insect it needed me to be.

My right hand shot behind me, my spine a toy, and pointed to the knife, to all the night it held inside of it. In a moment of sanity, clarity, I grabbed the fireplace and let loose a whale I had been holding inside of me. Warmth surrounded me.

The smell of sage entered me. The fireplace stone froze under my hands as the cold snaked away from my throat and mouth. The warmth freeing my body to myself again. The rank trespasser cowered out of my mouth and hands as heat poured from my body and into the fireplace. It was blood hot under my fingers, and I collapsed. It was gone. Mimi ran to me holding me close, rocking me back and forth. Silla and Mom looked at us from their place settings.

Adult and smug in their maturity. June, what are you on the floor for? Silla said, smiling. It was only the storm that blew the door open. Did it work? asked Mom laughing. Mimi and I looked at each other. The knife lay impotent on the ground. It's death end flaccid, pointing at the door.

I touched the fireplace behind me. It felt like holding a hand. Hot. Years after, Mom and Silla would laugh about how drunk they got that night, and about how scared Mimi and I were of a little old storm. Mimi told me later that she saw Granny Poppy that night. I saw nothing. Priscilla ended up getting knocked up by Billy the following fall.

He got a job as a car mechanic. She dropped out of school. They have since married and have two baby girls. They come to visit sometimes. Mom met a man the year Granny Poppy died. He was a bad man named Dale, with a soul as dark as his hair. He liked Mom's high heels and miniskirts. She liked him because she always liked loving bad men.

We had to move three times while they were dating. At one point, Mimi and I having to go live with Billy and Silla. Mom married Dale during this time, giving up everything to not be alone. Dale died in a motorcycle wreck a couple months after exchanging vows. He left her quite a bit of money, and now Mom lives in Florida, doing nails and going to the beach. We don't talk too much anymore. Mimi tells me things about her from time to time, but I don't care. There are some things I cannot get back from her.

So's the will. Mimi did well in all her classes and went to college up in the northwest part of the state. A bit closer to me. Every once in a while she comes by In those golden afternoons over sweet tea and porches The world becomes honey again She plans to move away for good to a bigger city in a better place She wants me to go with her

I can't she knows that Someone has to watch Someone has to tell Someone has to make sure everything is okay So's the will. From here in the summer evening light, you can see the mingle of spider webs giggling in the twilight draped over the porch. From here, the words of my story,

the story I tell every night before sleeping, it's all just words. Not my twist and turns, not my burden and design. As the broken cuckoo clock inside thrums its jesters time, I hold my hands up to the imaginary listeners in their silent applause. The porch creaks like it always does under my feet, and the trees around the house sloped their heads down in typical southern judgment, simultaneously resentful and tender.

Dust is its own clock on the windows. I make sure to skip over the threshold, to avoid the loose boards and nails. I wash the floors every day with salt, lemon, and lye. The roof has begun to dip into the living room, allowing the rats to rummage into the furniture. The dishes by the sink are immaculately clean. While salting the door, I think of Mimi's words the last time she stood there. June, the world would warm up to you more if you wouldn't be so damn cold. I think of warmth from time to time while carving with Pappy's tools, baking bread on summer days, my numb hands doing their tepid routines.

Oh, I should turn the beds and freshen the linens, tidy the attic. I should fix the damn cabinet that keeps crept. breaking open at night. I should go to the market soon. I should fix the garden. I should do a lot of things. Instead, I eat a slice of bread with butter at the sink, careful to avoid the glass I broke the day before. I wipe my frigid fingers on my apron, crouched by the fireplace. I loosen the familiar stone and make sure that the knife is where it belongs. Securing it in its tomb, I stand up, light the candle on the table, and touch the fireplace long since unused. It's warm.

It's always warm. I pray for death before it goes cold again. So's the will. For your bonus episode, creepy presents. I shouldn't have dumped her. Written by Rosa writes. I decided to get some ice cream on a whim.

Didn't matter that it was already in the 50s. in San Francisco. Who doesn't like a little fog and mist with our ice cream? I need to stop asking rhetorical questions. It's an annoying habit. Anyways, I don't normally walk that route, not at 8 p.m. on a weekday. But I did walk that route,

and I did see her. I saw her walking towards me like out of a movie. The chill wind blew back her hair a little bit. She was wearing a beanie like she always did when we were together. Her coat was that biggie corduroi with a high neck, the kind of jacket that's cute, but almost disgusting in its grunginess. I'd imagine this sort of scenario a few times. I'd imagine her shuffling back into my life.

She always had this really annoying habit of dragging her feet. She always tripped if she had too much to drink because her shuffling would just get worse, and her heels would stumble over the cracks in the pavement. It was a maddening, endearing quality she had. Ava! I yelled at her. That was maybe 20 feet away.

Maybe a little over-eager in my introduction. But it was like she didn't hear me. Ava! I yelled again, quitting my steps towards her, and this time she looked up. She stopped walking. She took a step back. Ava! I said.

I thought. I thought it was you. Excuse me? She said, voice quavering. I think you're mistaken. She took another step back. I reached out to her. It was her.

She must not have recognized me in the lighting. Her voice was the same. Her look was the same. I smiled. Ava, don't be silly, it's just me. It's been forever. I just wanted to say hello. She stared at me, hard.

I shifted. I hadn't thought things were so unamicable between us. I don't know you, she said, and this time her voice was hard and angry. Ava, I'm sorry, I just wanted to say hi. I don't know you, she said, almost in a scream. I'd jump back. She turned around to walk away. "'Wait!' I said.

I ran up to her and grabbed her shoulder. She flinched. "'Wait, just let me buy you dinner. I know things could have ended a bit better between us, but I also know you are who I think you are. Here, give me your phone.' She pulled away. "'Don't touch me.'

"'Ah,' I said. Okay, fine. Are you free tomorrow? If so, meet me at La Takaria. Meet me at six. I'll buy you a burrito. That's the least romantic thing we could ever do, and there'll be lots of people around. I paused, trying to soften my voice a bit.

I sounded so desperate. I just want to catch up. She walked by me quickly and glanced once back to make sure I wasn't following her. The next day I was distracted at work. I kept thinking about my meeting with Eva. Why'd she pretended that she didn't recognize me? I was a bit shook. Why did I insist she meet up with me for dinner?

I thought back to the last time I'd seen her. She was leaving my apartment, headed for a bus ride to Los Angeles. I wished her well. I didn't think of the time that she'd been the one, and I know I heard her. So I hadn't expected her to leave so suddenly. Such as life, I guess.

I was just keeping her around for my ego, but the thing about Ava was the longer she was gone, the more I realized how much better she made things. Like, she had this subtle presence that was sort of maddening. I felt like she had just become this unavoidable part of my life. and as a 25-year-old, I hadn't been ready for that. It had been hard dumping her because there wasn't really anything wrong with her. I just wanted someone exciting. Someone would keep me on my toes.

She accepted everything about me and it was... Boring. It was so, so boring. Well, if it was so boring, then why was I walking? to La Takaria. Why was I leaving 20 minutes earlier than I needed to? I was curious what brought her to the city,

curious as to what she was doing now. I wanted her to be doing well. I waited outside the door. It was really cold outside, but I was sweating, and so I didn't mind getting some air. People looked at me as they walked inside. I held the door for a few.

The girls smiled at me. I tended to have that effect on them. Even I'll admit that I'm handsome, as dushy as that sounds. She didn't show it first. I was disappointed, but I stayed just in case she was running late. If it had always been punctual, something that used to bother me. If I say come over at 6, I'm probably not going to be free until 6.30. Everybody knows that.

Well, maybe she finally got a clue. Because she showed up at 6.25. Well done, I thought. She learned a thing or two from dating me after all. I smiled at her. It was a little weird. Maybe I was misremembering, but she looked the same as she had the night before. Her black boots were the same, her jacket.

I guess I don't really know what pants she'd been wearing. But there was her beanie, too, and her makeup was the same. Whatever, I thought If she's visiting, she probably doesn't have many clothes packed. The thought of her just visiting made me kind of sad. Hey, pretty lady, I said, holding out my arms for a hug. She'd always liked that, but this time she's smirked. Not a nice kind of smirk.

It was like a, you're making an idiot of yourself smirk. I frowned. "'J,' she said, smiling. "'Sorry to keep you waiting.' I laughed. "'I knew it!' I shouted, going to hug her. "'Why did you pretend not to know me?'

She shrugged. "'I wasn't expecting to see you. It caught me by surprise.' She paused. "'I didn't think I wanted to see you again. I smiled. "'Well, I'm glad you changed your mind. What would you like to eat?'

She looked at the line. Oh, nothing, she said. Oh, come on. Since when did you stop liking burritos? It was almost our turn. I don't really eat burritos anymore. I still ordered her what I thought had been her favorite. She looked at me almost angrily.

I told you, I don't eat these. I waved her off. You don't have to. I'll just finish it if you don't. We sat down. It was packed, per usual, and the table was dirty. She seemed uncomfortable sitting. She reached for the burrito.

She looked surprised when she took a bite. Wow, she said, chewing slowly. It's as good as I remember it. I chuckled. How long you've been away from SF? I asked. She stiffened. Well, I've been here a while now, to be honest.

Not sure how long exactly, but at least a few months. What happened in L.A.? I asked. She looked at me. I guess I wasn't meant to make it in L.A. We sat there in silence. I started to blabber on about what I've been up to in the year since I'd seen her. She seemed very interested.

She chewed the burrito slowly, much slower than I was eating. I could tell she was savoring it, and that made me pleased. I was happy that the way to her heart was still food. Like before, the more I spent time with Eva, the more I started to remember the things I loved about her. The way she blinked twice when she was confused, or how she rested her face in both hands when she was deep in thought, I started forgetting why she'd left in the first place. Had I really dumped her?

I looked into her face. It was still beautiful. I had let a good thing go. I shook my head. Hey, I'm really sorry about how we left things, I said. I didn't mean to hurt you. Her body language changed. You're sorry?

She said slowly, like she was being sarcastic. You're sorry. She looked angry. Yeah, I said. You shouldn't have gone. You know me? I always push away people I care about. I tried to grab her hand, but she snatched it away.

I told you not to touch me. She almost snarled. I was hurt. My bad. Should we grab a drink or something? I have a feeling that could do both of us some good. Or at least you'll be drunk enough not to remember the stupid shit, I say. I didn't think she'd be down, but luckily she followed me out.

I took her to a spot near my apartment, a spot we hadn't been to together. I don't remember this place, she said. Yeah, I said after ordering an old-fashioned and a beer for myself, I figured he could see something new. I know he always used to go to Trip Dog I wanted to take you my new haunts I ordered a rum and coke for her She took a sip and then shuddered

Burns my throat She said I chuckled Come on You used to drink like a champ For the first time that night she laughed It was a great laugh With her head thrown back to the sky

No no you were the one who drank like a champ. She punched my arm lightly. It felt good to have her touch me. I laid the charm on thick. It was starting to look more and more like she'd come home with me. I pounded some more drinks. I was getting really nervous.

It seemed like she was judging me as I drank. I definitely started getting a little sloppy. I invited her back. thinking she wouldn't agree anyways. But she did. Where are you staying? I asked her. But she just told me we should go back to my place.

I live by myself in a studio, like I did when we were dating. She'd moved in for a few weeks, but it had been too suffocating, and then she moved to L.A. I switched apartments, and that was that. My furniture arrangement was basically the same, though, and she looked a little spooked. "'Did you airlift your shit here?' she asked. "'It's just how I remember it.' I shrugged, kicking some clothes on the floor into my closet.

I was never the neatest. "'Do you want something else to drink?' I asked her. I could hear the slight slur in my words. She smiled. "'You sit here,' she said. just tell me where you keep your glasses. She must have remembered that I always kept my alcohol above the fridge.

That made me smile. Sure thing. Shelf to the left of the fridge. I could hear some rattling from the kitchen. She came back in with two glasses filled with bourbon. Her hands were trembling slightly. I wondered if she was nervous too. That made me feel a bit better.

"'Ava,' I said. "'I've really missed you. I'm so glad we ran into each other.' I took a swig, wiping my mouth messily. "'It's like it was meant to be.' She looked at me, grinning slightly. "'Yes, I think you're right.' "'It was meant to be.'

I hugged her. She stiffened, and I was going to say sorry. but I knew she couldn't resist me. She never could. I started unzipping her jacket. It had that high collar. Then I saw the bruises. At first, I hoped they were hickies,

but then I could make out the finger marks. What the fuck? I said. She was looking at me. What? She asked. "'Aren't you going to keep going? "'You always kept going before.'

"'I was confused. "'What happened to you?' I asked. "'She smiled. "'Aren't you going to tell me you love me?' "'She asked. "'Aren't you going to keep pretending "'that everything is fine? "'That you didn't hurt me?'

"'I was confused. What the fuck is this? She unsiped the rest of her jacket. There was a knife. My kitchen knife hidden within the jacket. Don't you remember? She asked. Don't you remember telling me how easy it would be to dump me somewhere where nobody would find me?

Like near the ice cream parlor where you left me last year? She grinned. I'd turn to make a mad sprint for the door, but she was ready. She stabbed me in the back. I gasped and fell down in agony. She stepped on me, pinning me down. Don't you remember, Jay? She laughed.

I was supposed to go to L.A. the very next day. I would have fucking walked right out of your life. But you couldn't handle me leaving on my own accord. I always did everything for you. I did everything you said. She twisted the knife more, and I groaned. When I finally couldn't take it anymore, when you fucked up my life and isolated me from all my friends here, I got the courage to leave. Either way, I would have been out of your life.

So why did you have to kill me? Huh? Now I could hear a cry building, but I was too panic to feel bad. There was no way what she was saying was true. She left me after I dumped her. she left me after I dumped her. Oh, shit. There's no way, I gasp.

If what you're saying's true. Trust me, she said. I didn't expect to be able to do all this. After you strangled me, I bet you thought I was dead. The last thing I remember is you tying the bag. I was still alive, you know. I was still alive when you fucking dumped me. I had to die smelling trash, she cackled.

I have been wandering those fucking streets for a year. I thought it was my purgatory, my damnation for wasting my life on such a sorry loser of a person like you. I started circling near the spot you dumped me, wondering if I could find out what happened to my body if anyone ever phoned me, didn't touch anyone. people couldn't hear me and then I run into you and you can see me you can hear me and other people can see me it's so fucked that even now you're the person that makes me seen makes me feel alive but you know what

I'm not alive I'm dead and it's more worth it to me to see you suffer than it does to feel alive she shook her head I can't believe you went back to the spot I can't believe I finally get to leave you she made me record all this she made me call the police and confess I figured it would be better to have a chance at survival and spend my life in jail

than it did to die with her driving a knife into my back over and over again maybe I'd share her fate if I let her do that I do know that after I heard the sirens approaching, after I blubbered her a final apology, she screamed, I'm going to L.A. And away she went.

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