traditions
by Brett Matthew Graham
lightning bugs flash in the dark,
but they’re red.
no.
I’m seein’ the eyes
of the demons again.
but I’ve still got wood to chop…
I hurry, but I hear their
screeching
crunching leaves as they approach.
I grab an armload and head inside
where my wife and my newborn son
sit in a rocking chair.
she says “They’re coming out sooner.”
I nod “I know”
and set the wood by the dwindling fire,
throwing a log on.
it immediately catches
and I relax.
they can’t get in here.
there’s too many crucifixes on the doors
and I have a shotgun;
a double barrel loaded with shells
blessed by the local preacher
just this morning.
he’s the only other one that knows.
he understands
and says that he’ll help in any way he can.
everyone else thinks we’re recluse.
they think we’re just
creepy mountain folk,
only showing up in town
when we need
supplies.
but they don’t know about my father,
the bankrupt farmer
and the deal he made to get this land.
they don’t know about what
he offered the devil;
every other child
starting with himself
and continuing on
with my son.
he expects me to have another after
so he can take me.
then my second son will grow up
and father a child
just to give him away.
just to have another
and die himself.
just to have this land.
it is beautiful, though.
crops grow within days of planting.
the well is always full of water.
the animals always offer clean meat.
but you only get so long to enjoy it
because there’s a quota
and you have to fulfill it.
you have to go with it.
but I don’t want to cooperate.
I don’t want to give up my son.
his first words were “Daddy…”
muttered in a peaceful voice on a rainy Sunday morning.
I don’t want his last words to be “Daddy!!!”
echoing in a horrible shriek
as he’s pulled into the darkness by the demons,
their eyes blazing
their laughter resonating.
I can hear them outside now,
scratching on the roof,
at the walls,
the front door.
but we have the crucifixes;
seventy two in all,
lining every doorway
and every other possible entrance to the
house.
the crops are tall.
the well is full.
the animals are sleeping, content.
but me, my wife, and my son
cower in fear.
we hear them scratching
just like last night
and the night before.
I am determined
to stop them
from getting my son.
just like last night
and the night before,
I will stay awake
because I know they have a
potential agent,
an outsider in the deal;
my wife.
they will try to
possess her
and use her
but she doesn’t know any of this.
my wife thinks I’m protecting them both,
but really
the shells,
the shells had blessed by the preacher,
they’re for her.
I only let her hold my son
so she doesn’t get suspicious,
but this has gone on long enough.
too long.
I know, deep inside of me
I know
that I will have to kill my wife tonight.
that’s why I had the shotgun shells blessed
this morning.
the demons scratch outside, laughing.
I stare at my wife, forcing a smile
to assure her that we’ll survive
another night of this,
but I know
she won’t.
because there’s more veins in her face than usual.
she’s swallowing more because she’s thirsty.
because hellfire is hot.
it dries you out.
she gets up from the rocking chair,
holding our son,
and tells me that she’s very tired
and she wants to go to bed
and I say
“Yes, my love. Go to bed.”
she puts our son in his room;
the doorway lined with crucifixes
and staggers into our
bedroom
and I follow,
shotgun in hand.
I stare at the lump of sheets on the bed,
watching it rise and fall with every breath,
waiting to pull the trigger.
my father kept a journal
that describes, in detail
how my mother acted
before she took him.
the woman will claim she’s tired
and go to bed.
once asleep,
the demons invade her,
corrupting her.
there’s no stopping it.
it’s bound to happen eventually.
it’s exactly how they got my uncle’s son.
he used to live a few acres away
before he killed himself.
so I watch the sheets
rising and falling on the bed,
waiting for them to slow
then turn panicked.
and that’s when I fire.
one quick blast, and everything stops.
I stare at the lump of red sheets
for what feels like an hour
before I hear crying
then I run to my son’s room,
shotgun ready,
and see that the window has been shattered
and he is gone.
I hear a faint scream.
“Daddy!!!”
I fall to my knees,
cursing God for letting
his enemy run rampant.
then, I notice that the crucifixes
I personally put over the window frame
are scattered all over the floor.
they’re getting smarter.
they got to my wife before I did.
the last time I saw her alive,
she was sitting in the rocking chair.
she looked normal.
she told me that she loved me.
then she put our son to bed
and removed the crucifixes.
how long did they have her?
she acted so normal…
the next day, I wake up alone.
I tend to the tall crops.
I get water from the full well.
I feed the healthy animals.
after I’m done, a car comes up my drive
it stops and
a woman gets out.
she’s very beautiful.
she tells me that she’s lost.
I give her directions
to help her on her way
then she tells me that
she’s been traveling for days
she tells me that
she’s very tired
and could really use
a cup of coffee.
and, over coffee and pleasant conversation,
it hits me.
this woman will be my next wife.
she will father my next son.
the son that will replace me.
when the demons come again.
I take another sip of my coffee,
listening to her talk about her brother
thinking all the while
about the other blessed shell that sits in my
shotgun,
awaiting my decision.
the crops are tall.
the well is full.
the animals are healthy.
I lean across the table and kiss her,
sealing another deal,
another tradition.
