The Twisted Ones

by T. Kingfisher

“The only reason anyone would show up was to make sure she was actually dead.”

The underside of the porch roof was painted pale blue. “Haint blue,” they call it. The theory is that if a ghost comes up to the door, it’ll look up and see the blue ceiling and think it’s the sky, and drift up into it.

The moon had gone down, but the yard was bathed in that cold gray light that means you’re either up too early or way too late.

I got up the next morning feeling grumpy and much put-upon.

Waiting for the police to show up is rather like waiting for a package to be delivered, except that you have a vague nagging worry that the package is going to tell you you’re breaking the law and arrest you on the spot. I tried to fill another garbage bag with old newspapers, while jumping up and going to the window every time a car went past on the road.

I stopped thinking in words.

There was mayonnaise on the sandwich. Maybe when we met the holler people, Bongo’s gas would knock them out.

I squeezed the hickory twig tightly between my fingers, but the thoughts didn’t go away. Apparently that was just me being paranoid, not any kind of magic.