Whiskey for Dead Kin

By Chris Doty-Dunn

Growing up, Pa told Jeremiah and me tales about his still’s magic. Told us before we knew what whiskey was. Probably before we knew what magic was, either.

I lean against the rough oak of the barn’s door frame. The space is empty ‘cept Pa’s still, nothing but vacant stalls, scratches in the floor and ceiling, and a rusty pitchfork forgotten in the corner. Outside, the sun’s behind the mountains, and the sky’s deep with the purple that only comes in October. The moon looms dark and orange, jealous of the pumpkins waiting for the harvest.

Jeremiah puts another log on the fire and sits back, eyes lost in the flames. “It’s boiling. Time to take back what’s ours.”

“If she comes...” I say. I’ve done rootwork and hoodoo, while the magic of the still’s been left to Jeremiah as the eldest. But he’s never summoned a devil, and I don’t feel half as sure as he sounds.

“She’ll come,” he says.

I hope he’s right. It’s our only shot at getting back the wealth that Pa earned, wealth that’s plumb gone now that he’s dead. With the rest of the bad in my life, if we can’t get it back...

Least Jeremiah has a plan.

Cold fall air gusts through the door, though the leaves on the pumpkin vines outside don’t move.

At the end of the drive, a fleck of white appears out of thin air. Even before it starts moving, I know it’s Mary Lou. My daughter. I grab the door frame to keep from spinning and try to pretend my plans haven’t just changed. That we haven’t been played for fools.

As Mary Lou skips towards us, a shadow stretches over the pumpkins on either side of her. It isn’t til she’s closer I see it’s not a shadow, but the pumpkins rotting as she passes by.

“Lord have mercy,” Jeremiah says next to me.

Mary Lou stops at the bottom of the barn’s steps and picks at the bow on her white satin dress. A bow that ought to have rotted away years ago. “Hello, boys,” she says, the voice my girl’s. “Haven’t seen you since you were tots. How’s tricks?”

I can’t do nothing but weep. Next to me, Jeremiah’s muttering the Lord’s Prayer.

Mary Lou looks down at herself. “Oh, this old thing? I figured you hadn’t seen her since she died.” She twirls like she used to and breaks my heart. All I can see is the seventh birthday party she never got to have. “Do you like it?”

When I swallow, my throat burns like Pa’s moonshine. “You’re here on business, not family reunions.”

She stands up taller and rolls her eyes, her gestures no longer Mary Lou’s. “Jeez, you try to do something nice for a guy...”

Mary Lou comes up the stairs, and Jeremiah and I take a few steps backwards, making space for her. All the time, I’m dreading what’s coming.

“So, what do you—”

Her nose curls under suspicious eyes. Before she can back away, Jeremiah grabs a burning piece of wood and chucks it at Mary Lou’s feet. The pungent holy oil we spent days rubbing into the sigils ignites and races in a circle ‘round her. Flames shoot up and find the matching circle on the ceiling, making a cage of blessed heat.

But I feel none of the peace that trapping her was meant to bring.

The demon wearing my dead daughter howls. “You sons of bitches! You think this’ll get you what you want?”

“I reckon,” I say, “that none of us has much say in how this ends anymore.”

“Give Pa’s money back,” Jeremiah says. “Nothing in your deal with him said the money’d up and leave when he died.”

“True.” Mary Lou purses her lips. “But nothing said it would stick around, either. And I’d be a crummy demon if I didn’t sow seeds for future deals.”

Jeremiah leans forward as he yells, “We’ve a right to what Pa earned!”

The demon smiles my daughter’s smile. “Is that what you want, Ezekiel?”

Jeremiah cocks his head. He hasn’t put it together yet.

I rub sweaty palms on my britches. “No,” I whisper.

The still’s fire dances in Jeremiah’s wide eyes as he realizes. “Zeke, don’t—”

The corner of Mary Lou’s mouth twitches. “I’ll give you a day with her for my freedom and a soul.”

Jeremiah looks like he’s fixing to sob. He rushes to the still, pulling the fire out from under it with bare hands, trying to kill the magic.

But it’s too late.

The pitchfork’s in my hand and then in his back, over and over again. I use it just like he taught me when it became my chore to clean up after the horses.

“Zeke...” Jeremiah groans, and his body falls into the embers face first.

“Daddy?”

I drop the pitchfork and pull my daughter close, praying this is real. Praying it isn’t.

Can’t say how many times I heard Pa’s tale ‘bout the still’s magic and what it can offer. But I missed the lesson all the same—that everything comes with a cost.

Least I’ve still got my soul, and I know now death ain’t forever.

Next blood moon, I’ll get the still going again so I can sit on the porch with Jeremiah. Drink moonshine and tell him I’m sorry.

I reckon he’ll understand.

But that’s later.

Today, it’s Mary Lou’s seventh birthday.

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