Page 66 of The Knucklebone Brothers

I followed Emory inside, and the trailer was not what I expected, but it was, all at the same time. The whole back end of it was open, a wide gap leadin' right out into the woods, like the mountain had just taken a bite out of the room. Fabric hung where windows should be, old lace curtains, some a faded, dusty pink, others a stained, torn white. They moved softly in the breeze, makin' the shadows dance.

Dolls. They were everywhere. I couldn't even count how many. There were porcelain dolls with crackin' faces, their glass eyes starin' at nothing. There were rag dolls with button eyes, their cloth bodies limp and worn. Some sat on shelves, some were nailed to the walls, and a few were tucked into the branches of a small, dead tree that grew right up through the floor in the middle of the room.

Emory was barefoot, her little feet silent on the worn wood floor as she led me inside. The trailer smelled earthy, like damp soil and old wood, but there was a faint, sweet scent under it, the smell of cotton candy. I saw collections of bones on small shelves, neat little piles of them, and jars filled with teeth, yellow and white, all different sizes.

Emory was humming softly, a tuneless, happy little sound, as she cleared a spot on a small, worn-out sofa. She patted the spot beside her, a silent invitation. I went to sit down, and that's when I saw it. A whole wall was covered in broken mirrors, the pieces shattered but still held together in the frames. I caught my reflection, a hundred fractured versions of myself lookin' back. It was cracked, splintered, mirroring exactly how I felt on the inside—broken and wrong.

My eyes drifted from the broken mirror, drawn to a small trail of flickering candlelight. It led from a shelf of old, cracked Halloween dolls to a dark corner of the room. There, sitting in a simple wooden chair, was a skeleton. It was propped up, dressed in an old, faded floral dress, the fabric thin and worn with age. Pinned to its dress was a collection of strange, beautiful things: one carousel horse, one clown, one Ferris wheel, one circus tent, one little star, and one plain, antique brass button. On its lap sat a bundle of dead wildflowers, their once-bright colors now faded and brown.

I cleared my throat, my voice soundin' small in the quiet room. "Emory, honey... what's that?" I pointed, tryin' to keep my voice steady, tryin' not to sound like I was judgin' her.

Emory giggled, a light, airy sound. She skipped over to the corner, her bare feet silent on the floor. "Well, that's my momma!" she said, her voice full of pride. "Madeline Knucklebone!" She did a little twirl, her skirt flarin' out around her. "She was the best puppet mistress in all the holler! People traveled for miles to buy her beautiful dolls."

I was surprised, it sounded normal enough. I'd expected a sad story, not a story of a celebrated artist.

But then Emory's face changed, her smile fadin', her eyes gettin' a weird, eerie look. "Til people didn't believe her," she said, her voice droppin' to a low, conspiratorial whisper. "They didn't believe her that they were alive. They called her a freak!"

She stood there for a moment, her head down, then she looked up at me, her eyes wide and innocent. "She's been dead a long time now," she said. "I accidentally killed her."

I froze, my whole body goin' rigid. "Accidentally?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper.

Emory giggled again, a sound that sent a shiver down my spine. "It was an accident!" she said, her voice bright and cheerful. "We were playin' a game. Her favorite game. She was gonna teach me how to make the dolls talk for real. She had this special string, see, made from the hair of a hanged man. She said it was the only thing that could make 'em truly alive. She was showin' me how to tie the knots, how to whisper the words, but the string... it got tangled. It wrapped around her neck, and she just... fell down. She didn't get up."

She looked at me, her eyes wide and expectant, like she was waiting for me to tell her it was okay. And all I could do was sit there, my heart pounding in my chest, the air in the room suddenly feelin' thick and heavy, like I was breathin' in ghosts.

Emory skipped over to the skeleton. She reached out and gently patted the faded floral dress, her touch tender, like she was touching a livin' person. "I couldn't let her be all alone in the dirt," she said, her voice soft and sweet. "So she stays with me. She's very much still alive, you know. With all my dolls."

She leaned in close, her lips right next to the skull's empty eye sockets. "Isn't that right, Momma?" she whispered. "You're still here, aren't you? You're just waitin' for the show."

She stood up straight and turned to me, a big, bright smile on her face. "She says she's excited to meet you," she said, her voice full of a childish certainty. "She says you're gonna fit in just fine."

I looked at the skeleton, at the dead flowers on its lap, at the strange, beautiful things pinned to its dress. And for a second, just a second, I thought I saw a flicker of movement in its empty eye sockets, a trick of the candlelight, maybe, but it made me shiver all the same.

The day faded away, the light changin' from a soft, golden yellow to a deep, hazy purple. I spent it with Emory, doin' things I never thought I'd do. We strung beads onto wire to make strange, danglin' mobiles that looked like captured stars. We mended the torn lace on her dolls with needles made from porcupine quills. We even picked wildflowers by the creek, their pale purple heads standin' out against the faded oranges and browns of the October holler, a last bit of life before the long sleep of winte

We were walking back, our arms full of the pale purple flowers, when I saw him. He was standin' by the edge of the woods, a dark, solid shape against the trees. He was covered in tattoos from head to toe, a livin' tapestry of ink and scarred skin, his face a mask of strange, beautiful images. He looked wild, scary, almost, but there was something about him, something wholesome in a weird, unsettling way.

"The boys will be expectin' their bride," he said, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that seemed to come from the ground itself. "I was told to bring you to them."

I looked at Emory, who just smiled, a little sad, a little knowin'. "See you later, Rory," she said, her voice soft.

I handed her the flowers I was holding, and she took them, her small hands careful. I turned and followed Knox, his silent, steady steps leadin' me away from the purple flowers and the fading light, back toward them.

We walked, the silence between us thick and heavy. The path led us toward the eerie graveyard. The creepy lights were still there, flickerin' and swayin' in the fading of the day, a hundred little ghost lights dancin' amongst the crazy carnie headstones. Each one was a testament to a life lived on the fringe, carved with names like "Pogo the Stilt-Walker" and "Esmee the Fortune Teller."

As we got closer, I saw them. Flickerin' lanterns, scattered at the edge of what looked like freshly dug graves. The earth was dark and wet, piled up beside the holes. Then I saw it. Dirt flyin' up into the air, the tips of shovels catching the faint light as they rose and fell. The rhythmic sound of digging echoed through the quiet holler, a steady, sickening beat.

We got closer still, and my heart stopped. Blythe and Maverick. They were climbing out of the freshly dug graves, their bodies covered in dirt, their faces grim and determined. They were pullin' dead bodies out from the ground, the corpses limp and heavy in their arms. They moved with a strange, practiced ease, like this was just another chore, another part of getting ready for the show. It was a scene from a nightmare, a horror movie playin' out right in front of me.

The boys saw me then, their movements pausing as they acknowledged my presence. Maverick was the first to break the silence, a wide, unsettling smirk spreadin' across his dirt-smeared face. "Just bringin' out the guests for the party," he said, his voice a low, teasing rumble. He gave a little grunt, hoistin' the body he was holding a little higher. "Gotta get 'em all lined up before the show."

He and Blythe started moving the bodies, layin' them out in a neat, grim row on the grass. I looked down at them, my stomach turnin' over and over. They were a collection of the long-dead, a sickening parade of decay in its various, aged stages.

The first one, the one Blythe had been haulin', was mostly a skeleton, but not clean. Strips of leathery, mummified skin, the color of old jerky, clung to the bones in places, particularly across the ribs and skull. It was wearin' the rotted remains of a conductor's uniform, the brass buttons on the jacket still somehow gleaming in the faint light. One of its arms was missin' from the elbow down, the bone splintered and broken.

Next to it was a woman, or what was left of her. She was completely mummified, her skin a dark, shriveled brown, pulled tight over her bones. She was dressed in a tattered lace dress, the fabric as brittle as old paper. Her face was a mask of silent agony, her mouth open in a soundless scream, her teeth perfect and white in the midst of all that decay. Her hands were perfect, too, the long, bony fingers tipped with painted, chipped red nails.

Then there was a smaller body. It was just a small skeleton, the bones yellowed and stained with earth. It was naked. One of its feet was gone, and it looked like it had been chewed off, the ends of the lower legs splintered and gnawed. It was layin' on its side, one hand reachin' out, as if it had been trying to crawl away.