Chapter Text
"Aint no good in runnin' from what's already in your blood. Best you come inside...an' we see what price the spirits gon' ask o' you." I said cocking my head towards the back before grabbing my bag of bones.
The floorboards groaned under my boots, whisperin' secrets older than either of us. Heat pressed thick against the skin, even though the sun had long since drowned behind the trees. Something in the air smelled of ash, of iron, of somethin' wet and old. Somethin' that didn’t need a name.
The hallway stretched long and narrow, lined with pictures whose faces had long been faded out. Every now and then, a candle guttered out in the heavy dark, throwin' shadows like hands reachin' out.
"Best watch your step," I muttered, more to myself than my guest. "These old boards got a habit of openin' up when they smell fresh blood."
The girl behind me didn’t make a sound, but I could feel her fear rollin’ off her in waves, thick as summer heat on a graveyard noon. Good. Fear was proper here. Fear was respect.
I led her through the narrow halls of the Lovell house, past sagging walls and doorways that breathed in and out when the wind passed wrong. My workroom waited at the back, cloaked in the scent of smoke, old secrets, and the kind of memories that stain.
The walls were stained dark, heavy with the breath of decades on the rottin' wood. Shelves bowed under the weight of mason jars — some filled with things floatin’ in murky light, twisted shapes that sometimes twitched if you squinted. In the corner, Grandmama Lovell’s old rocker sat empty, though if you caught it movin’ from the corner of your eye… best not to mention it.
"Sit," I said, pointin’ to the worn wooden stool set dead center of a chalk circle. The marks I'd laid down that mornin' still shone white as bone against the blackened wood.
"And whatever you hear, whatever you see... don’t you dare step outside that circle."
I knelt, layin' out my tools:
A needle curved from a crow’s beak
Thread spun from Spanish moss and mourning songs
A jar of graveyard dirt, still slick with midnight dew
The bones in my sack clattered soft against each other, a whisperin’ language the girl didn’t know. But I did. After all , bones remember what flesh tries to forget.
"Your mama," I said, striking a match that flared a deep, unnatural blue in the thick, breathless air, "she came knockin’ too, 'bout six years back. Wanted the same thing you’re beggin' for now."
I lit the black candles one by one. The flames danced high and low like they was telling a story only the dead could understand.
"Question is..." I murmured, my voice low as grave dirt, "you sure you ready to know what she learned?"
I waited, watching as Callie shivered, but she nodded none the less.
I let the silence stretch, heavy as a coffin lid, before I reached into my apron pocket and pulled out three polished coins — old silver dollars, each etched by a hand overseas a long time ago.
From the far end of the hall, I heard the shuffle of small feet — familiar, steady, like the beat of a heart too long buried.
Micha Lovell was the first to appear, lean and sharp-eyed, a smirk already twitchin' at the corner of his mouth. His dark curls clung to his forehead, and he spun a coin across his knuckles like he was born to cheat death and chance.
Malachi Lovell followed, slower, heavier, his steps makin’ the candles bow toward him as he passed. His eyes — darker than the soil under a grave — flicked to Callie once, lingerin' long enough to make her shift on the stool. He didn't smile. Malachi never really smiled unless we were all alone.
Last came Elisa Lovell, barefoot, her white cotton dress stained at the hem. She carried a mason jar clutched in both hands — somethin' glowin' soft and wrong floatin' inside. The hair I twisted just this morning now sat in curls that bounced around her sharp, watchful face, and when she locked eyes with Callie, it felt like time held its breath.
Micha — the trickster.
Malachi — the mourner.
Elisa — the seer.
Lest thats what the town folk called them whenever we decided to take the boat out on the Delta Blue.
"Price has to be weighed," I said to Callie, my voice flat. "Can't work a spirit without paymen'. And lucky for you..." I tilted my head toward the children, who circled the chalk like wolves smellin' blood.
"My young'uns know how to balance a debt."
"How much you got?" Malachi asked, his once squeaky voice draggin’ low like a shovel through the mud. He didn’t flinch, didn’t blink—just let them dirt-colored eyes settle like judgment. Firstborn by seconds, but always the one who stepped forward when it mattered. Even now, standin’ there barefoot on cracked boards like he owned the heat.
Callie's hand trembled as she reached into her dress pocket, pulling out a handful of crumpled bills and loose change. "Seventeen dollars and..." she counted the coins, "...thirty-three cents. It's all I got."
Micha's laugh crackled like kindling catching fire. "Oh honey," he drawled, that devil's grin spreading wider. "We don't take that kind of currency here."
"Money's for the living," Elisa whispered, her jar casting strange shadows across her face. Inside, something pressed against the glass like it was trying to see out. "And what you're asking for... that's death's business."
I moved to my cabinet, bones rattling in my apron pocket with each step. The wood was black with age, carved with symbols older than sin. "Three ways to pay," I said, pulling out items one by one. "Blood..." A curved knife, handle wrapped in red thread. "Memory..." A mirror that showed nothing but darkness. "Or Time."
The last item I held careful-like: a pocket watch that ticked backward, numbers written in a language that hurt to look at.
"Choose quick," Malachi rumbled, his shadow stretching longer than it should across the floor. "Sun's almost down. And them lawmen..." He glanced toward the window where the sky was turning the color of old bruises. "They'll be crossing the river soon. Blood calls for blood, after all."
"And when it does," Micha added, still playing with that coin, "ain't gonna be no time left for deals like this."
I watched Callie's face, saw the moment fear gave way to something harder. Something desperate. Her mama had worn that same look, right before she chose. Right before everything changed.
"What'll it be, girl?" I asked, laying out all three options before her before standing behind my kids. "Blood, memory, or time?"
Callie's eyes darted between the three items, each one seeming to pulse with its own dark heartbeat. "Time," she whispered finally, reaching for the watch. "I choose—"
"Wait." Elisa's voice cut through the air like winter lightning. The thing in her jar thrashed once, violent-like, making the glass sing. "She needs to know the cost first, Mama. Show her what happened to the last one."
I nodded slow, reaching for a different jar on the highest shelf. Inside, something that used to be human floated in murky water. "Your mama chose time too," I said, holding it where Callie could see clear. "Traded three years of her future for what she wanted from her past. Only..." I tapped the glass with one long nail, "future ain't always what you expect it to be."
The shape in the jar turned, showing what was left of a face – features twisted like candle wax left too close to flame, mouth frozen in a silent scream.
"Time ain't just numbers on a clock," Malachi said, his voice heavy as cemetery stone. "It's moments. Breaths. Heartbeats. You give up time, you giving up pieces of yourself. What is and what could've been, gone like smoke. "
Micha leaned forward, coin dancing faster across his knuckles. "Memory's cleaner," he suggested, teeth gleaming in the candlelight. "Just takes what you've already lived the good, the bad stacked up like cards. Leaves the rest mostly intact."
"And blood?" Callie asked, voice barely a whisper.
"Blood's honest," I said, picking up the curved knife. "Hurts the most, but at least you know exactly what you're paying. Three drops for a whisper, three ounces for a secret..." I paused, letting the blade catch the light. "Three pints if you want to change what's already written."
The candles flickered as something passed between worlds, making the shadows dance wild on the walls. Outside, a dog started howling – the kind of sound that makes mothers hold their babies closer and old men reach for their guns.
"Choose now," Elisa urged, her eyes gone distant like she was seeing something none of us could.
As I stabbed a knife in the middle of the table I could hear the slow creak of the rocking chair nearby but I paid it no heed.
---
The knife still hummed deep in the wood when Callie finally staggered to her feet, her hand brushing against the chalk line like she didn't even feel it painting her hand white.
Her face had gone gray, leached of all the life she'd walked in with — lips pressed so tight they looked like they'd been stitched shut.
Eyes wide and hollow, staring at nothin' any living soul could see.
I said nothin'.
Micha just flicked his coin.
Malachi watched her with the same solemn pity he gave to rabbits caught in the fox's teeth.
While Elisa just mindlessly played with her jar not looking at anyone or anything in particular.
Without a word, Callie backed toward the door, every step lookin' like it cost her somethin' she didn't have much left of.
When she crossed the threshold, the house seemed to exhale, the wood and stone settlin' like a great, tired beast.
I waited 'til I heard the screen door slap shut, the sound thin and small against the bruised sky outside.
Then I turned, slow and easy, toward Elisa, still cradlin' that glowin' jar like a heartbeat she didn't want to wake. She wasn't normally the type to run around like I did when I was younger but she usually had way more life than this.
"You okay?" I murmured brushing all of her hair back as her eyes finally lifted to meet mine.
Elisa blinked slow, like her lashes were weighted down with more than just sleep.
For a breath, she just looked at me — looked through me — like she was still caught halfway 'tween here and wherever her dreams had dragged her.
Then she leaned her forehead against my hand, before reaching up to play with my painted beads. The jar pressing tight to her chest, glowin' like a coal about to go cold.
"They're comin', Mama," she breathed, so soft I barely caught it.
"Who, baby?"
Finally, she breathed, voice small but clear:
"I dreamed, Mama."
I brushed her hair back again, waitin’.
Elisa never rushed her dreams. You had to let 'em come like a boil under the skin.
"There was two men," she said. "One wore a suit... red as a preacher’s lie. Sharp-cut. Fine-fitted. Shinin' like fresh blood in the sun."
I felt the bones in my pocket stir, whisperin' low in a language I knew better than to ignore.
"And the other?" I asked, my voice a thread pulled tight.
Elisa shivered, clutchin' that jar harder. "He wore blue, Mama. Deep blue, like river water just before a storm. Hat low over his eyes. They didn’t say much. Just stood there—one smilin’ like the devil caught a joke, and the other lookin’ at the world like it owed him somethin’. "
The rocker creaked slow behind me, a lazy back-and-forth like breathin' in a grave.
I pulled Elisa closer, tuckin' her under my arm careful-like. My hand brushed the strip of faded silk she wore braided into her hair — the same scarf I'd used years ago to gather up my own wild curls when times were sweeter.
Each of my babies had a piece of it now, stitched and tied in quiet places: Micha wore his wrapped tight around his wrist; Malachi had his stitched secret into the lining of his coat; and Elisa, my heart, wove hers right into the crown of her hair, a talisman and a tether both.
"Hold tight to it, sugar," I whispered against her temple. "That silk's got more in it than thread and love. It'll keep you anchored if the river tries to pull."
Elisa nodded against me, small and brave, her breath hitchin' just once.
" They smelt like burning tobacco', Mama," Elisa said again, a whisper almost swallowed by the darking sky.
I stilled, every part of me gone tight as a snare wire.
For a long breath, I just held her, starin’ past the circle of candles at the door where Callie had fled — where somethin' invisible still clung like smoke to the frame.
The Lovell blood in me, the rootwork, the prayers stitched into every scrap of cloth I owned — none of it had ever promised protection from what you couldn't name.
And it never promised a mother's heart would understand the monsters her young'uns dreamed up.
I wanted to tell her it was nothin’.
Tell her she was just caught up in the work — in the fumes and the spirits and the tales Grandmama used to whisper after the house fell quiet.
But when I opened my mouth, the words stuck hard in my throat, bitter and heavy as grave dirt.
Instead, I pressed my lips to the crown of her head, breathin' in the salt-sweet smell of her scalp, the silk threadin' her hair brushin' my cheek like a ghost's hand.
"I hear you, baby," I whispered rough. "I hear you."
It was all I could give her.
Because the truth hung in the air like a blade — sharp and certain:
Whatever was comin’... it had already crossed the river and the bones in my pocket were finally quiet.