Page 55 of The Knucklebone Brothers

I would get in their heads, make them think I was coming around to be their little bride. Make them trust me enough to take this damn chain off. I was sick of the constant pull and the clank-clank-clank every time I moved. If acting like the sweet little captive was the ticket to getting this thing off my waist, then I would play the part. I would let them think they had me.

I pushed myself up from the bed, the chain dragging across the floor with a soft, metallic scrape. I stretched my arms over my head, arching my back, and felt the hem of the pinstriped top lift up. I let out a small sigh, then walked over to the window, my bare feet silent on the cool floor. The curtains were heavy, a thick, dark fabric that blocked out almost all the light, but a faint, orange glow flickered through the room from the jack-o'-lantern they'd left sitting on the table inside. A damn night light. I had to smirk at that.

I slowly pulled back the curtain, the fabric rough against my fingers. The world outside was washed in the soft, grey light of early morning. The storm had left behind a patchy fog that clung to the ground, swirling around the trunks of the trees like ghostly breath. The autumn leaves, a riot of red, orange and gold, looked even more vibrant against the damp, green moss. It was almost pretty. A murder of crows was cawing from a high branch, their calls sharp and echoing in the stillness.

That's when I saw it. A shift in the fog, but it wasn't small. It was tall, unnaturally so, and moved with a strange, jerky gait that was all wrong. It was too long, too thin to be any man I knew. It was just a silhouette, a dark shape against the mist, and then it was gone, dissolving back into the fog like it was never there at all.

My heart kicked up a notch. I scanned the tree line, my eyes narrowed, trying to find the shape again. That's when I saw her. Tucked behind the thick trunk of an old oak, a girl. She was small and pale, wearing a tattered dress that looked like it belonged on a porcelain doll. She was just standing there, half-hidden, watching the trailer with an unnerving stillness.

I stood there, my breath caught in my throat, just staring. The girl had two braids, thick and dark, hanging down past her shoulders. She tilted her head to the side, a slow, unnatural movement, like a broken bird trying to get a better look. It was hard to tell from this distance, through the hazy fog, but it looked like her face was painted on, like one of those porcelain dolls you see in an antique shop, all pale skin and rosy cheeks.

Then, she did something that sent a chill straight down my spine. She lifted up a doll, holding it right in front of her own face. The thing was a nightmare. It was old, its porcelain face cracked like a dried-up riverbed. One of its glass eyes was missing, leaving a dark, hollow socket, and the other was a cloudy, milky color that seemed to stare right through me. Its mouth was a thin, painted-on slash of red, and its hair was a sparse, tangled mess of black yarn that stuck out at odd angles. It was dressed in a tattered little lace dress that was yellowed with age.

The girl used the doll's hand to wave at me, a slow, jerky back-and-forth motion. A creepy-ass attempt at saying hello. It wasn't friendly. It was the kind of thing that let you know, real clear, that you had just stepped into a whole new level of fucked up.

My eyes darted away from the girl for just a second, catching a movement in the fog at the edge of the yard. It was a large, dark shape, tall and unnaturally thin, moving with a slow, jerky gait that was all wrong. I whipped my head back to look, but it was gone, dissolving back into the mist like it was never there at all.

Then I heard it. A low, rhythmic humming sound, vibrating through the air. It wasn't a bird. It wasn't a car. It sounded like a massive engine struggling to start, or a beast inhaling deeply. It made my chest tighten, a cold knot of fear settling in my stomach.

I looked back at the girl, my heart pounding. She was gone. Just the empty space where she’d been standing, the tree trunk now standing alone in the fog.

That’s when the sound stopped. Silence fell over the holler, heavy and suffocating. Then, I heard the heavy, slow creak of the trailer door opening. I felt a cold spike of fear shoot up my spine. What the hell was coming for me? It wasn't the boys. I knew their footsteps. This was slow. Deliberate. Like something dragging itself.

The heavy footsteps stopped right outside the door, the silence that followed somehow more terrifying than the sound itself. Then, the door was pushed open with a sharp bang, and Blythe stood there, his brow furrowed in a look of genuine confusion. Maverick was right behind him, his eyes scanning the yard, his body tense.

"Who was here?" Blythe asked, his voice low and serious.

I shook my head, trying to find the words. "There was... a shape. A tall one, in the fog. And a girl. A little girl with a doll." I looked from Blythe to Maverick, my heart still hammering against my ribs.

Maverick let out a low, rumbling laugh, a sound that was both amused and unnerving. "Oh," he said, a wide grin spreading across his face. "So you met Emory."

I snapped. "That's Emory?!" I practically yelled, my voice cracking with disbelief. "What the hell is wrong with you people?"

Blythe just sighed, ignoring my outburst, and pulled a chair out from the small kitchen table. "Come sit and eat," he said, his voice calm and steady. "Momma made breakfast. And we need to talk."

The smell hit me then, a wave of delicious, home-cooked goodness that made my stomach growl despite my fear. Bacon, eggs, biscuits, and that thick, creamy sawmill gravy that could make anything taste better. I hesitated for a moment, my pride warring with my hunger, but then I walked over to the table and sat down.

I ate, the food tasting better than anything I'd had in a long time, my fork scraping against the plate. Finally, I couldn't take the silence anymore. "K, so what do we need to talk about?" I asked, my voice a little softer now.

The boys slowly approached the table. Maverick had a smile on his face, a look of pure excitement. Blythe just sighed and leaned against the counter, his arms crossed over his chest, his expression unreadable.

Maverick leaned forward, his elbows on the table, his smile never faltering. "Tonight," he said, his voice low and conspiratorial. "You're gonna meet Momma."

I just stared at him. "Momma?"

"Yeah," Blythe chimed in from the counter, his voice flat. "She has a dinner planned for us. We'll be at the main house tonight." He pushed himself off the counter and walked over to the table, his eyes locking onto mine. "And you have to be on your best behavior."

"Momma's... strict," Maverick added, his tone losing a little of its playful edge. "It's important for us to get along with her. Real important."

Blythe nodded in agreement. "And you're going to be made presentable for her. So before then, we're goin’ to spend the day together." He paused, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. "Emory wants us to meet her at the midway later."

I just sat there, my fork halfway to my mouth. This was a lot. A dinner with the matriarch of this messed-up family, and a playdate with the creepy doll girl. It felt like I was being prepped for some kind of twisted debutante ball. I was a prisoner, a tool they were using to dispose of a body, and now I was supposed to be on my best behavior for their mother? It was all so backwards, so fucked up. But I just nodded, my mind already racing, already planning. I'd play their game.

Later that afternoon, they said it was time for me to be made "presentable." I was shoved into the small bathroom with a pile of stuff that looked like it came from a thrift store. There were old-school metal curlers, a clump of cheap makeup, and that cherry lip balm Maverick had bought me. I managed to get my hair into some kind of tousled waves with the curlers, and the makeup was a lost cause, but the lip balm... it left my lips looking juicy and dark, a nice, glossy red.

Then there was the dress. I held it up and rolled my eyes so hard I almost saw my own brain. It was white and old-fashioned, all lace and a low-cut bodice that was probably scandalous back in the fifties. They'd thoughtfully provided a slip. I thoughtfully left it on the floor. When I put it on, the neckline dipped lower than it probably should, showing off the slight curves of my breasts. I looked at myself in the mirror. I looked like a ghost at a prom. I smiled. It was perfect.

I walked out of the bathroom, and the sound of their jaws hitting the floor was almost audible. Maverick let out a low, long whistle. "Well, damn," he breathed, his eyes roaming over me like he was starving and I was a five-course meal.