Page 37 of The Knucklebone Brothers

The scratching sound came again, a little louder this time, followed by a soft, dry rustling, like old leaves skittering across a wooden floor. My heart kicked up a notch, but I wasn't about to piss myself like some scared little girl. I leaned forward, squinting into the gloom, my chained hands resting on my knees.

"All right, you son of a bitch," I muttered, my voice a low, gravelly whisper. "You wanna come out and play? I ain't got all damn night."

That's when I heard it. A soft, airy giggle. It wasn't a happy sound. It was the kind of giggle that came from the back of a person's throat, high and breathy and completely devoid of humor. It sent a shiver down my spine, a cold, prickly sensation. My eyes darted around the room, trying to find the source, but the shadows were too deep, the light too weak.

Then came the tapping. A soft, rhythmic tap-tap-tap on the wall, right above my head. I froze, my breath catching in my throat. It wasn't the sound of a claw or a tooth. It was too precise, too deliberate. It sounded like a fingernail, long and brittle, tapping against the wood.

"Who's there?" I called out, my voice a little louder this time, a little more demanding. "You best show yourself 'fore I come find you and skin you alive."

The tapping stopped. The giggling stopped. The only sound was the crackle of the fire and the relentless chirping of the crickets outside. I held my breath, my ears straining, my eyes scanning the darkness.

Then, I saw it. A flicker of movement in the corner of my eye, near the ceiling. I looked up, and my blood ran cold. There, crouched on one of the rafters like a damn spider, was a figure. It was a man, but he was folded in on himself in a way that no human should be able to bend. His knees were tucked up under his chin, his arms wrapped around his legs, his body a tight, compact ball.

His face was painted a stark, chalky white, the paint cracked and peeling like old porcelain, revealing dark, shadowy skin underneath. His hair was a wild, tangled mess, and his eyes were two dark, hollow sockets in the pale mask of his face. He just sat there, watching me, his head tilted at an unnatural angle, a slow, creepy smile spreading across his lips.

He didn't say a word. He just watched me, his gaze unwavering, his presence a silent, suffocating weight in the small, dark space. I stared back, my heart pounding in my chest, my mind racing. Who the hell was this? And what in God's name was he doing in my cage?

The figure on the rafter didn't just climb down. He flowed. It was the most unnatural, bone-chilling thing I'd ever seen. His limbs seemed to have no joints, bending and twisting in ways that made my own ache just looking at him. He descended head-first, his body unfolding like a grotesque flower, his hands and feet finding purchase on the rough wood with an eerie, spider-like grace. He moved in complete silence, a silent, flowing shadow against the dark ceiling.

He landed on the floor in a crouch, his knees bent so far back they were practically touching his shoulder blades. He stayed there for a moment, a hunched, silent shape in the gloom, before he straightened up with a series of soft, wet pops and cracks that made my stomach turn. He moved closer to the stove, the firelight finally illuminating him properly.

His clothes were a goddamn nightmare. He was dressed in a mismatched collection of old, vintage clothes that looked like they'd been pulled from a trunk in a forgotten attic. He wore a pair of baggy, pinstriped pants, the kind a old-timey gangster might wear, but they were patched at the knees with mismatched plaid. His shirt was a dingy, off-white, like a mime's, but the sleeves had been ripped off, revealing long, thin arms that were too pale, too sinewy. Over it all, he wore a tattered, black vest, the buttons done up wrong.

I wasn't scared, not really. I was too pissed off and too crazy myself to be scared of some weirdo in mime clothes. But I was startled. "Who the fuck are you?" I demanded, my voice low and steady. "And what in the hell are you doin' in here? Do Maverick and Blythe know you're in here?"

He didn't answer right away. He just tilted his head, his cracked, white-painted face a mask of curiosity. He took another step closer, his movements fluid and silent, his eyes fixed on mine. He opened his mouth, and a soft, airy whisper escaped his lips.

"You don't fit yet."

I was just about to open my mouth, to tell this cracked-up clown to get the hell out of my face, when the trailer door flew open with a loud bang, crashing against the wall. I jumped, the chain rattling against the bed frame.

Maverick stood there, framed in the doorway, the pitcher of water in one hand. He didn't have his mask on. Seeing his face, all sharp angles and that mop of dark hair, threw me for a second. His green eyes, bright and mischievous, scanned the room, and when they landed on the creepy contortionist, a wide, knowing grin spread across his face.

"Well, well, look what we got here," Maverick drawled, his voice full of playful mockery. "Cricket, what are you doin' in here tryin' to freak Aurora out?" He walked in, setting the pitcher down on the stool with a soft thud. As he passed the man, he gave him a silly shove, a love tap on the back of his head. "Go on, get out of here before you freak her out. She can't sleep. She's already been havin' problems sleepin' as it is."

Cricket didn't say a word. He just gave a little bow, his body folding in on itself again, and then he scurried out of the cage, moving with that same silent, liquid grace before disappearing into the shadows.

Maverick turned back to me, a devilish but yet charming smile on his face. The firelight caught his eyes, making them glint like a cat's in the dark. "Oh, don't you worry 'bout ol’ Bone Man," he said, his voice a low, conspiratorial whisper. "That's just Cricket for ya. He likes to play jokes." I watched him, my whole body going rigid, my breath catching in my throat so hard it hurt. Then the cage door swung open. He stepped inside, not with a rush, but with a slow, deliberate prowl. His heavy boots didn't make a sound on the floor, just a soft, deliberate thud that matched the frantic beat of my own heart.

He stopped right in front of me, so close I could feel the heat radiating off him, and his shadow swallowed me whole, blocking out the last of the last of the fire's warmth. The air grew thick and heavy, charged with something I couldn't name but could feel in my bones. A shiver, sharp and electric, traced a path down my spine, raising goosebumps on my arms. It wasn't from the cold.

Lord have mercy, my brain screamed, what is wrong with me? This man was a monster, a captor, but my damn body was humming like a plucked guitar string, every nerve ending standing up and begging for his touch.

Maverick saw it. Of course, he saw it. A slow, lazy grin spread across his face, his eyes glinting with a dark, knowing light. He leaned in, bringing his face so close to mine that I could feel the soft puff of his breath against my ear. It smelled of moonshine, woodsmoke, and something else, something uniquely him. His voice was a low, intimate murmur, a secret shared between the two of us in the flickering gloom.

"You get a shiver like that," he whispered, his voice a low, teasing drawl, "it means someone's just walked over your grave."

I couldn't help it. A short, sharp laugh escaped my lips. "You believe in those old mountain ghost stories?" I asked, trying to sound like I wasn't trembling inside. "Thought you were supposed to be the big, scary monster around here, not some spooked kid sittin' around a campfire."

Maverick pulled back just enough to look me in the eye, his own glinting with a strange, serious light. "Oh, I believe," he said, his voice dropping, losing its playful edge and taking on a low, eerie tone. "It ain't about ghosts, Aurora. It's about the haints. The ones that walk between this world and the next. They're the ones who walk over your grave, remindin' you that your time's comin'. They're the ones that watch you from the woods, just waitin' for you to step off the path." He leaned in again, his voice barely a whisper. "And they're always hungry."

I wasn't about to play into his damn spooky mountain games. "That's real sweet," I said, my voice flat. "Did you bring the water or did you just come in here to tell me bedtime stories?"

He chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that vibrated through my chest. "Patience, pretty thing. I'll give you your water. But first, I wanna play a game." He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a deck of worn, greasy playing cards. The cards were old, the edges soft and frayed.

As he started talking, his hands started moving. I couldn't look away. The cards danced between his fingers, a blur of worn red and black. He did a perfect one-handed shuffle, the cards arcing and falling back into place with a soft, papery whisper. Then a waterfall cascade, the cards flowing from one hand to the other in a constant, mesmerizing stream. He was showing off, a damn magician with his cheap, dirty props. I watched his hands, mesmerized. The ink on his fingers was faded and scratched out in places, swirling in dark, intricate designs that looked like they’d been there forever. His veins rolled under the skin like little blue rivers, pulsing with every movement. He flicked his wrist, and the cards snapped into a perfect fan, his fingers moving so fast they were just a blur of ink and bone. It was hypnotic.

"Simple game," he drawled, his eyes never leaving mine as his hands kept working. "I'm gonna fan these out for you. You're gonna draw one card. Just one." The cards fanned out in his hand, a perfect, smooth arc. "If you draw a red card, you win. You get your water, you get to clean up in the big trailer, and Amos has a surprise for you." He let that hang there for a second. "But if you draw a black card... you lose."