Welcome to part X of Poor Valley Witch, my little Appalachian gothic yarn.
He’d always had the impression that his grandmother didn’t like his mother.
“You need the nubbins,” she said. The cherry sweetness was gone completely.
“What’s this?” He took the tin from her, still holding the ring in one hand.
He picked it up and squinted at it: a small, gold ring, engraved crudely–scratched, more like.
He unlatched the slide-lock and pushed it open. It was small; he had to crouch down, peering through the gloom pent up in the attic.
Landon’s unease came back, full force. He pushed the button to silence the boom box, to better hear what they sang
Come in. The whisper came at the heels of the deafening, echoing knock. He could not. He couldn’t do it