Page 11 of The Knucklebone Brothers

The screen door on the main trailer slammed shut, cutting off the morning heat. Blythe was already at the small, grease-stained table, cleaning his rifle with the methodical care he gave everything. I leaned against the counter, my arms crossed, watching him.

"She's wild," I said, a grin spreading under my mask. I could still feel the way she'd glared at me, the raw hate in her eyes. It was beautiful. "Told me to eat shit, she did."

Blythe grunted, not looking up from his work. "She needs to eat."

"I know it." I pushed off the counter and started pacing the small space. "We can't just give her jerky. Not yet. That's a reward. A treat." I stopped and looked at Blythe's broad back. "She's gonna be with us for a long, long time. We gotta start her off right."

He set the rifle down with a soft thud and finally turned to me. "So what do you suggest?"

I chuckled, a low, knowing sound. "I suggest we go ask Momma for a proper meal for her."

Blythe went still. He never liked going up to the big house. He said it felt too quiet, like it was holdin' its breath. It put him on edge every time we had to visit.

"Come on now," I said, nudging his arm. "She'll want to know. We're bringin' home a new daughter. She'll want to make a good impression. You know how she gets." I leaned in closer. "She'll want to make her famous stew. The one with the dumplings that melt in your mouth."

Blythe was silent for a long moment, his head tilted slightly. Finally, he gave a slow, deliberate nod.

"Good," I said, clapping my hands together. "Let's go see Momma."

We walked out of our trailer and up the winding dirt path, away from the rusted-out carnival rides and the grimy wagons. The farther we got, the quieter the woods became. And then we saw it: the big house.

It was a two-story farmhouse, but it wasn't pristine. It was a monument to slow decay. The paint, once white, was now a peeling, sickly gray, like old bone. The porch sagged in the middle, and the windows, though clean, were like black, vacant eyes, staring out at the woods. It looked like it was slowly being swallowed by the mountain, a beautiful corpse left to rot in the open air. It was cold, and it felt haunted.

I knocked on the front door, the sound echoing in the unnatural quiet. A moment later, the door creaked open, and there she was. Hester. Our Momma.

She was a small woman, with silver hair piled in a neat bun on her head and a kind, smiling face. But her eyes... her eyes were like mine, sharp and dark and missed nothing. She was wearing a clean, though faded, floral dress, and she held a rolling pin in one hand, dusted with flour.

"My boys," she said, her voice a sweet, melodic hum that seemed to get lost in the cold air of the house behind her. "What brings you to my door?"

"Hello, Momma," I said, stepping forward lifting my mask to kiss her floury cheek. Blythe just stood behind me, a silent, hulking shadow. "We've got a guest."

Momma's eyes lit up, a predatory gleam that anyone else would mistake for excitement. "A guest?"

"A girl," I said. "From town. A fiery little thing. We're keepin' her."

Momma's smile widened. "Well, we can't have her eating that slop you two live on. She'll need proper nourishment." She looked past us, toward the woods, her gaze distant. "A stew, I think. With carrots and potatoes. And dumplings, of course."

She patted my shoulder, her hand surprisingly strong. "You boys go on back down. I'll bring it when it's ready. And Blythe," she said, her voice softening as she looked at my brother. "Try not to break her before she's had a good meal."

Blythe just nodded, his head bowed.

We turned and walked away, leaving Momma standing in the doorway of her cold, haunted house, her decaying kingdom. I could already taste the stew. We were a few steps down the path when her voice, sharp as a shard of glass, cut through the silence.

"Boys."

We both stopped, turning back. She hadn't moved, but her posture had changed. She was no longer the sweet, doting mother.

"Take those ridiculous masks off," she said, her voice leaving no room for argument. "You'll frighten the poor thing."

I glanced at Blythe. He was rigid, his shoulders tense. I could feel his hesitation, the irritation radiating off him. He shifted his weight, his gloved hands clenching and unclenching at his sides.

"Momma," he rumbled, his voice low and hesitant. "I don't know if we're ready for that."

The air grew cold. Her smile vanished, replaced by a look of such intense, cold fury that it made the hair on my arms stand on end. She took a step forward, out of the shadows of the house and into the daylight. Her icy blue eyes, the same as Blythes, seemed to darken.

"Don't you talk back to me, Blythe," she said, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. It wasn't loud, but it carried more weight than a shout. "I made you from dust and bone. I will unmake you just the same. Now, do as I say."

Blythe flinched as if she'd struck him. He bowed his head, his whole body seeming to shrink in on itself. "Yes, Momma."