Don’t Wake the Bones

When I first arrived at her cottage, still a child with tear-stained cheeks and thin, ranging limbs, Grandmother grabbed me by the shoulder and said, “You must never wake the bones.” Her face was not so lined then, nor her limp so pronounced. Her nails were sharp against my shoulder and her eyes searched mine with cold intensity. Do not wake the bones. Never wake the bones. We repeated the words, polished them smooth against our tongues, reciting them back and forth each morning, afternoon, and night. It was our mantra, our ritual, our prayer.

She carved the lesson against my soul. Never wake the bones, for once they rose, the price that they demanded was death.

*

When the supplicant arrived, Grandmother sent me to make the tea. I hurried with the heavy brass kettle and the tea leaves and the cups and tray, but when I entered the parlor, he was nearly finished with his story. His head was bent in his hands, his dark hair seeping between his fingers. His arms were bare and strong, and his skin was darkened with sun. He ignored the bone-white teacups and instead looked plaintively at Grandmother. “Please,” he said. “I will give you anything within my power to give.”

Although I could tell by his clothing and the calluses on his hands that he was poor, the tilt of Grandmother’s jaw meant she was considering. There were always two prices for supplicants to pay–one to the magic and one to Grandmother. Much like the magic, Grandmother was unpredictable in what she requested. Clay pottery and coral beads were as like to turn her head as bolts of silk or gold coins.

“I accept your offering,” she said, tapping a long fingernail thoughtfully against the table. “We will discuss your payment after you receive your miracle.”

“Thank you.” Emotion bubbled in the man’s voice and his cheeks shone where tears had slipped down. He was brave to offer so much vulnerability to Grandmother, who was, as always, impassive.

Her bracelets, carved wood and bone, chinked together on her wrist as she stood. She pulled them off and handed them to me. “Keep him quiet while I work,” she warned before leaving the room.

I sat down at the table with the man. “She will do as she has promised,” I told him quietly. “But while she works, you must make no sound. We must not speak. The magic is very dangerous. Do you understand?”

I heard the front door shut as Grandmother went out. The man nodded, his eyes still shining with tears. A pang of empathy needled my heart. He was young and handsome. I wondered what he had wished for. And I wondered what he had just accidentally bargained away.

I heard soft scratchings like mice beneath my feet. Grandmother was in the cellar. I tuned my ears to the rustling of her movements. Through the floorboards, her voice was rising, the words foggy and soft as they floated up. She was beginning the ritual–beginning to sing. Beside me, the man flinched and there was worry in his eyes. I pressed a finger to my lips to remind him that we were to be silent. But I understood his fear. The language of the ritual, the cadence of its song–it still made my skin crawl, though I had heard Grandmother sing it hundreds of times.

He swallowed hard and closed his eyes, tilting his face up towards the ceiling as if in prayer. I watched him while the song progressed and told myself stories about him–that he was kind and generous, that he had a prosperous farm tucked between green hills and a favorite dog with lopsided ears that he patted affectionately on the head. When I grew bored, I watched the dust motes floating in front of the window. The sun was stretched across the floor, long and hot. I wiped a bead of sweat from my brow.

*

I was often afraid when I first came to live with Grandmother. I would hide in the attic to escape the scent of freshly dug earth and the copper tang of blood and the grim look she wore when she rose from the cellar. But like most children, I was curious. And curiosity eventually weighed more heavily on me than my fear. One day Grandmother caught me, skulking by the cellar door with an ear to the planks.

“Curiosity will kill a child,” she said. But she lit a candle and we descended the rotting stairs together, her clasping onto my arm for balance. “Look now, sate your appetite for trouble while they are deep asleep,” she said, not unkindly.

In the darkness of the cellar, there was a table, like a shrine, with a pile of faded velvet in the center. She lit the tapers and pulled back the cloth. The bones took shape from the shadows. A tibia, a femur, a rib, a toe bone, and a scapula. They were the yellow and brown of old mushrooms, kept in the dark of the basement instead of bleached by sun. They shone in spots where her hands had polished them with wishes.

I felt them stirring around me, felt the air move like whispers against my skin. I reached out my hand to touch them.

Grandmother slapped it down. “Only if you want them to feed on you,” she hissed.

*

When her voice, rich as woodsmoke, ceased, the man looked at me with a question in his eyes. I shook my head. After the ritual came the silence, more waiting. As the minutes dragged on, I could sense him growing restless beside me, but he stayed silent. Finally, I heard the soft clip of the cellar door and gestured for him to rise.

His chair scraped loudly backward.

I froze, alarm rising through my body. I threw up my hand to motion for him to be still.

I strained my ears, but there was no sound downstairs, no prickling of my skin. Cautiously, I led him to the yard. Grandmother was waiting for us beside the fence. Green tendrils of weeds curled around her legs.

We could speak at a normal volume outside. She had just lit her pipe and a cloud of acrid smoke billowed from her mouth. “It is done,” she said.

The man clasped her hand in thanks. “Bless you, bless you, kind mother.”

She wrenched her hand free. “When you have seen it for yourself, bring me back your payment.”

He nodded, wiping at his eyes. “I will. I promise,” he said, before parting.

“What did he wish for?” I asked. We watched him walk down the lane.

“His wife was dying. He wanted her saved.” She drew a long breath against her pipe. The smoke floated around her head. She waved it away. “Poor fool.”

I thought of his kind eyes. “What will he lose?”

She stared down the road, where shade dappled the grass that grew wild between the ruts. “His wife will leave him for his brother.”

“Did you tell him?”

“No.” Her eyes looked tired. She was growing weaker, drained by the magic required to commune with the bones. It did not used to tax her so. I worried that she was growing frail, too frail to control them much longer.

“Let me help you next time, Grandmother. Teach me how.”

“No.” She tapped out the ashes from her pipe and smothered them beneath her heel. “Be careful when you go inside. They may not be sleeping soundly yet.” Without another word, she walked away from me, down the path that led to the woods, where she sometimes went after communing with the bones.

*

I used to wonder why Grandmother did not wish away my parents’ illness, but now I think I know. They were the price that she paid for something else. Something that she will never say, and that I will never know.

*

“They fed well,” Grandmother said. Her arms were stained with blood. “And they will remain in a deep sleep for quite some time.” Her voice still carried the sound of lullabies and dreams. “I do not think I will trouble them with any wishes for at least a fortnight. It is getting harder to keep them asleep.”

I fetched her the block of soap, scented sweet with summer lavender. I had already filled the basin with fresh cold water from the pump. The blood ribboned through the sink as she washed, bathing the porcelain crimson. “What did you feed them today?” I asked, handing her the soft linen towel.

Her eyes burned against mine, flaring like the end of a cigar. “It is best you do not know.” She laid aside the towel, now stained pink, and slid her bracelets on her wrists. They clacked against each other like knuckles.

I knew better than to press her for answers.

*

The house has always been thick with Grandmother’s secrets. They clump together in the garden under piles of black earth. They grow inside the walls like vines that creep and cling. They hide in the dust gathered between the floorboards. And most of all, they swirl like a fog deep in the cellar, mixing with air choked with the must of damp soil and the sweet rot of roots.

She has never told me where the bones came from. She has never taught me how to sing them to sleep or how to weave wishes through their dreams. But I have listened. I have pressed my ears against the floorboards, memorizing the shape of her whispers as she lulls them in their sharp tongue.

It has been twelve years since I came to live with Grandmother. Once her ears were fox-sharp and she could hear the bones’ restlessness before I ever noticed. But little by little, I have grown attuned to them, and I can feel their artlessness rising when they begin to stir. Their power prickles my skin and tickles my belly, and I have begun to play a game—to wait and see how long it takes for Grandmother to notice they are waking.

Today, it took her almost an hour.

She thinks that I am not ready, but she is wrong.

*

Grandmother and I had just sat down to dinner when we heard banging on the door. I jumped up from my chair.

“Quickly child, before that fool wakes them up!”

A young woman was out front. Her hair was bound up in a scarf. Bright earrings shone at her ears. “Please, you must help me,” she pleaded. She was beautiful and young, not much older than me. “I have heard that here is where wishes are granted.”

I showed her into the parlor.

“Go fetch the tea,” Grandmother commanded.

“No!” The young woman held up her hand, pacing. “Respectfully, kind mother, I do not need tea. I need assistance. Can you help me?”

Grandmother gestured to the bench. “That depends on your problem. Wishes are not things to be easily granted.”

The woman did not sit. She pulled her silks around her, fretting. “My father wishes me to be married. And I think that is a wish that ought not to be granted.”

“Why not?” Grandmother crossed her arms. She had sucked in the sides of her cheeks as if tasting something sour.

“Because I do not love the man. Because I have another lover. Because I am not his property to be given!”

“So run away with your lover, then. You have no use of me.”

The woman wrung her hands. “You don’t understand! My father will kill him if he finds out.”

Grandmother frowned. “Then do not let him catch you. Do not rely on wishes when sense and proper planning will do.” She turned to me. “Show her out, child.” Grandmother waved her hand dismissively as she turned from us, limping back towards the dining room.

I walked the woman to the door. Her face had crumpled to despair.

I could not pass up an opportunity. “Come back in three days’ time,” I whispered. “Grandmother won’t be home. But I can help you.” My heart had sped up with excitement, and it was slapping against my ribs. I felt sick with my own daring. But no one should be forced into a marriage that they did not want. And I knew the words, I knew the ritual. I was ready.

Tears sprang to the woman’s beautiful eyes. “Thank you,” she whispered. “I will return.”

*

I was afraid that Grandmother could hear the lies in my voice as she packed her basket to take to town. But if she was wary of me, she did not show it. As I pressed her shawl into her hands, she said “Take care that you are quiet. They have not been sleeping as deeply lately. I am half-worried that they will wake when I am gone.”

“They never have before, Grandmother. But if it troubles you, then perhaps you should teach me.”

Her mouth was a grim line. “You don’t know what you are asking, child.” She took her cane and set off down the road, her basket slung over one arm.

I watched her disappear around the bend. She would not return for hours. I made myself tea. I dusted the shelves. And I waited, leaving the door open as an invitation. Would she come?

When the sun was reaching its peak in the sky, the supplicant appeared at the doorway. She swallowed when she saw me. “I have brought something,” she said, pressing a pouch into my hand. “Everyone said that I must come with an offering.”

Inside was a fine broach, shaped like a leaf with precious gems embedded. I nodded. “This is plenty.” I wondered how I would pretend to Grandmother that it was not new. Perhaps I would stage finding it in the dirt. “There is a price for wishes,” I said. “One that I do not set. The magic that grants them will take something in return.”

Her brown eyes were wide as she studied my face. “What will it demand?”

“There is no way to tell until the wish is made. The price may be grand. It may be insignificant. But you must be prepared to pay.”

“I understand,” she said. She licked her lips.

I wondered if she could truly understand the risk. I wondered if I should tell her more, but I did not want to lose the chance. “You are still willing to proceed?”

“Yes.” She shifted her weight from one foot to the other. “And you are sure that you can do this for me?”

I closed my eyes. There was something stirring in me–an understanding of the bones and their power. They seemed to perceive me in their dreams. They invited me to sing to them. And I wanted to accept. “You must be silent while I am below. It is dangerous. Completely silent, do you understand?”

She nodded. I showed her inside. “Wait here. And do not come out until I tell you.”

*

How very deep the darkness of the cellar was as I slowly took the stairs. The candle was feeble against its power, drawing the dark closer rather than repelling it. I swallowed hard as I neared the table. My skin prickled, the hairs rising on the back of my neck as I grew closer and closer. Don’t wake the bones Grandmother had always taught me. But I would not wake them. I would keep their dreams soft and lush as I wrapped their magic around my hands and spun out a wish.

I could feel them stirring as I grew closer. My hands shook as I reached for the velvet cloth, peeling it back. Grandmother’s lullaby sprang to my tongue, the foreign syllables filling my mouth. The bones brushed against my mind, greeting me in their dreams as if I were an old friend.

The words of the ritual seeped out of my mouth like honey, rich and sweet. I felt relief slide through me. There had been nothing to be afraid of. I greeted the bones. I sent them dreams of the girl upstairs, of her wish.

They rushed around her eagerly in the dream, whispering, fluttering like moth’s wings.

And then they sunk in their teeth, turning sharp and vicious, gnawing at my control. My tongue slipped over the words and the bones pressed in, crashing waves of nightmares through my mind–terrible images of darkness and rot and rage and decay. My stomach lurched. My veins pounded with fear. I grabbed the table against the assault and struggled to maintain the lullaby.

I could feel it, like ice against my spine.

They were waking up.

And they wanted blood.

Their hunger stabbed through me, cold and empty and fathomless. I choked on the words. Every stumble of my tongue gave them more power. I had to regain control, to lull them back to sleep, but my mind was blank with fear.

A rattling filled the room, and I could see the bones shaking, vibrating. Above them, dark shreds of shadows hung, the shades of the people they had once been.

I recognized them. And I screamed.

I heard the bang of the cellar door. A sharp ray of light shot through the dark. “What’s wrong?” the girl cried. “What happened?”

“No, you must leave,” I yelled. “Run away now!”

But there was a growling sound, low like thunder. The girl screamed and clutched her head, falling to her knees and slipping down the last few stairs. Blood was seeping from her eyes, her ears. She screamed and screamed, clutching her head.

They were feasting on her.

My heart was too fast, and my breath too ragged. I gasped for air, trying to restart the lullaby. But they were awake, and they hungered, and they pressed into me from all sides. They were going to devour me too.

Then suddenly, more footsteps. “What have you done, you foolish child?” Grandmother took the steps to the cellar two at a time. She barely spared a thought for the girl, slumped on the ground and no longer screaming.

Darkness was closing in on my vision. Grandmother grabbed my hand, her grip sharp and strong. The words rolled off her tongue. The power rolled off her body. I could feel her commanding me. “Sing!”

The piercing pain in my head began to subside as my voice joined hers. Darkness and horror swirled. The shades leered at us. “Keep singing,” Grandmother snarled. She let go of my hand, pulled out something from her belt. A knife, sharp and cruel. It reflected the light of the candle. I knew what it was for. The bones were still fighting sleep and they were ravenous. Only an offering would lull them.

“Your hand,” Grandmother commanded. “And don’t stop singing.”

I slammed it flat on the table before I could think. Grandmother’s voice rose in feverous song. There was no time to second guess. No time to react. She swung the knife down. I felt the bones’ power run through me as the blade struck true against my skin, crushing through my knuckle. The only way to control them was to join them.

I screamed, flooded with pain.

Then I followed them into the darkness.

*

My finger bone sits on the altar, sleeping beside Grandmother’s toe, an uncle’s femur, a great-grandmother’s rib, my cousin’s scapula, and my mother’s tibia. I am another piece for their collection and through my carelessness, they have grown stronger and have claimed me. Now they press on my waking mind and I taste their bitter, hungry dreams in my mouth. It is difficult to bear the ache that haunts my belly. I am ravenous for wishes. I long to touch their power.

Grandmother tells me that we must never allow another to wish upon them. Our shades and our power are bound to them now, and when we die, we will become hunger and we will devour. Only death or offerings of new bones can lull them. They desire to claim more—a spine, a pelvis, a skull, but we must never permit them to become complete. For if they ever form a whole, they will wake and move through our world and there will be no offering in the world that will drag the bones back down into their slumber.

***

R.M. Jones is a writer, history-lover, and Halloween enthusiast living in Salem, MA. She spends her time daydreaming, painting murals, wandering around town like an architecture-obsessed ghost, oohing and aahing over historical houses. She writes dark and gothic fantasy as well as historical fiction. You can find her online at https://www.rmjonesauthor.com/ on Instagram @madam.salem, or @Hexabex on Twitter.