Page 65 of The Knucklebone Brothers

Maverick just laughed, a low, rumblin' sound. He took another big bite of his breakfast and sat down at the small table, proppin' his feet up on an empty chair. "Oh, this?" he said, pointin' at the skull with his spoon. "This was Clyde. He was our 'Human Blockhead.' Used to hammer nails up his nose for the rubes. Joked all the time about how he wanted his body parts used when he died. Said he didn't wanna be buried in no box to rot."

He took another bite, chewin' thoughtfully. "So I took it upon myself to grant his wish. His skull makes a damn fine bowl."

I just stared at him, frozen. "That's... that's messed up," I finally managed to say.

Maverick just grinned, a wide, unhinged thing. "It's openin’ night, babe. That's what we do here. The veil is thin, and we bring the dead. They join us. And Clyde," he said, tappin' the skull with his spoon, "he would've wanted this."

I pushed myself out of bed, my legs a little shaky. I looked down at my waist, expectin' to feel the familiar, cold weight of the chain. But it was gone. I was completely free. I looked at Maverick, my eyes wide with surprise. "The chain," I said, my voice still a little rough. "It's gone."

Maverick just grinned, a slow, wide spread of his lips. He took another bite of his food from the skull bowl. "Well," he said, his voice a low, casual drawl. "After tonight, you're family. We can't have our bride chained up all the time. Now can we?"

I walked over and sat down at the table across from him, my mind racin'. His words echoed in the quiet trailer. Bring the dead back. I knew the stories, the old Appalachian tales of the dead walkin' at night, of restless spirits and haints that got stuck between worlds. But what did he mean by that? What did they do?

"What did you mean?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper. "About bringing the dead back?"

Maverick set his bowl down, the skull clatterin' against the wood. He leaned forward, his elbows on the table, his eyes lockin' onto mine. He looked like he was about to tell a ghost story around a campfire.

"On openin’ night," he began, his voice dropin' to a low, eerie murmur, "the veil between this world and the next gets real thin. So thin, you can almost see right through it. It's the best time for a show. We go out, to the old places, the places where the ground remembers. The freaks who died too soon, the rubes who wandered too far off the path, the ones who wronged us. They come back."

He paused, his eyes glazin' over with a feverish light. "They don't come back like they were. Not exactly. They come back... changed. They join the show. They walk the midway, silent and watchful. They are our ghosts, our audience, our family. They are a part of us, forever. And we are a part of 'em."

I opened my mouth to ask him more, to ask him what it felt like, what the dead looked like, but just as I did, the trailer door swung open. It was Blythe. He walked in, his movements quiet and sure, and I felt a little smile jerk to the side of my mouth before I could stop it. I quickly smoothed my expression, my heart thumpin' a little too fast. I risked a glance at Maverick. His eyes hadn't left my face. Fuck, Did he see that?

Blythe walked over to the table, his boots silent on the floor. He reached out and brushed my hair off my shoulder, his fingers just barely grazin' the skin of my neck. A shiver went through me, a wave of goosebumps risin' on my arms.

"Maverick and I have a busy day today," he said, his voice low and steady. "You're goin’ to hang out with Emory while we finish up for openin’ night. We've been working for days and need to finish up a few things."

I just nodded, my throat suddenly tight, unable to form any words. His touch, his voice, the sheer presence of him, it was all too much. I could feel Maverick's eyes on me, still watchin', still waitin'. I was trapped between them, caught in a web I didn't know how to escape.

I followed Amos, his slow, heavy steps makin' a rhythm on the dirt path. The chain was gone, my wrists and waist free. I could feel the cool air on my skin, I felt free. I thought about runnin'. I could just turn and go, disappear into the trees. But the thought felt hollow, like a dream I couldn't quite grab onto. Escapin' didn't seem possible anymore, or maybe it just didn't seem like the answer. This place, these people, they were getting under my skin, and I didn't know how to feel about that.

I looked over at Amos, his big frame silhouetted against the morning sun. "Your cabin," I said, my voice a little too loud in the quiet. "You have a lot of... things in there."

He didn't look at me, just kept walkin'. "Forgotten," he said, his deep voice rumbilin' like thunder in the distance.

That one word hit me like a punch to the gut. Forgotten. He saved things people had forgotten about. A wave of sadness washed over me, a sharp, achin' feelin' for this big, quiet man who collected the lost and the left behind. It made me think about myself, about how I'd always been forgotten, just another face in the crowd, another girl from a town where no one really cared about me.

Without thinkin', I reached out and grabbed his hand. His skin was rough, calloused, but warm. He froze, his whole body going still. He stopped walkin' and looked down at me, his eyes dark and serious.

"You are family," he said, his voice a low, steady rumble.

A small smile touched my lips. "I guess I am, Amos," I said, my voice softer than I intended. "But we will see. It's scary here."

Amos just nodded his head, a slow, deliberate movement. He didn't say anything else. He just started walkin' again, and I followed, my heart a little lighter, and a little heavier, than it had been before.

We walked on, the path gettin' stranger the deeper we went. Then they appeared. Baby dolls. Dozens of them, strung up on the trees like some kind of demented orchard. Some hung by their necks, their plastic eyes starin' at nothing. Others were nailed to the trunks, their arms and legs twisted at odd angles. Some were just parts—a leg here, an arm there—a scattered, broken army. I knew, right then, this had to be where Emory stays.

As we got closer, I saw it, tucked under a thick blanket of ivy. A trailer, old and worn, bein' slowly swallowed by the mountain. It was pretty in a weird way, the green ivy stood out against the rusted metal. The dolls were like guards, their silent, plastic faces tellin' all the secrets of the outside world, warnin' me not to get too comfortable.

That's when Emory came running out. She was dressed just like the last time I saw her, her little braids flappin' behind her as she skipped towards us. She was holdin' a new doll, this one with one eye and a crack down its porcelain face. She ran right up to us, throwing her arms around Amos's waist, then around me, her hug tight and exciting.

"I'm so excited you get to have a girls day with me!" she chirped, her voice high and happy.

I looked at the doll in her hand, its one glass eye starin' back at me. "That's a... cute doll," I said, my voice a little shaky.

Emory beamed, grabbin' my hand and pullin' me toward the trailer. "I know! His name is Bartholomew!"

She pulled me inside, the door slamming shut behind us. I turned back, but Amos was already gone, his big form disappearin' back down the path, leavin' me alone with her and the dolls.