Story: The Ties That Bind

If somebody had told me two years ago that I’d end up in this crumbling Louisiana graveyard, digging up graves for a smoke demon, I probably would’ve tried slugging them in the gut.

Not because of the cemetery or the demon, but because back then, I’d been dying.

“Could you dig any slower?” Shadow asked now, craning over my shoulder to peer into the grave. He wasn’t exactly a demon, not really—but an old witch in Memphis had been able to sense him and had called him as much, like she’d been able to sense his personality, too.

“No,” I said brightly, swinging the blade of the shovel at him, “but you could.”

The shovel didn’t exactly pose much threat to him, since he was immaterial—just the languid, 3-D silhouette of a guy, made of ink and shadows. He ducked out of the way, though, maybe an instinct left over from when he’d been alive, and it bought me a few minutes of shoveling in peace.

“Whose grave is this, anyways?” I asked after a while, pausing. He waved impatiently for me to keep going, but the fledgling calluses on my hands were screaming, and I ignored him.

This was the third cemetery he’d had me visit this month, and it was just as wretchedly old as the others, all the gravestones tipped at disjointed angles, overtaken by dead grass. The spot he’d pointed me to, out on the edge of the yard, didn’t even have any kind of marker. “I mean, I’m guessing there’d be a stone if it were anybody important, but—”

“Are we sure it wouldn’t kill you to dig a little faster?” he interrupted, coming to crouch at the opposite end of the grave. “Or to maybe show some respect?”

That last part seemed pretty rich, especially coming from him. But before I could say so, he whipped around to face the cemetery entrance.

It took me a few seconds to catch what he’d heard: brittle twigs snapping underfoot, voices approaching.

I swore and dropped the shovel, sprinting for the fence. The woods were maybe twenty feet beyond; they’d make decent cover.

Shadow caught up with me, reaching out at my wrist like he could stop me. “Look, Ivy, we don’t have time for this. You’ve got to finish the job. If those people—”

Just then, a tall woman with long white hair winked into existence, right in front of us. I stumbled back, but it was already too late.

She snapped her fingers. Shadow cussed her out, even though I was the only one who could hear him.

And then the whole world bottomed out around me.

***

At first, when I woke up, I thought I was locked in some kind of dark room.

Then I realized I was in some kind of room, but it was only dark because of Shadow, leaning over me. When I stirred, he sighed and flopped back against the wall. “I hope you’re happy.”

We seemed to be in some kind of dusty linen closet, lined with shelves full of blankets and towels. I tried the door: locked. “Thrilled.”

Since his face was just a smoky mask, he couldn’t actually scowl—which probably really annoyed him. Instead, he slumped against the wall, shoulders hunched, back turned to me. He muttered under his breath, but I was too busy ignoring him to make it out.

***

Eventually, the white-haired lady came and brought me to a parlor, lit by a hissing fireplace. That made the room seem even darker, tiny and claustrophobic, crammed with mismatched furniture. She pointed to a threadbare armchair, and I sat.

“You’ve got a serious problem, young lady,” she said. “You’re aware that a smoke demon has fixed itself to your soul?”

Suddenly, Shadow materialized in front of the fireplace. “It was my grave, okay?”

I froze. “Come again?”

The lady said, “A smoke demon. It’s latched onto your soul, and if you don’t get rid of it soon, it’s going to start changing you. Probably already has.”

Shadow said nothing.

“I’m guessing it’s that influence that led you to try to get at that grave,” the lady went on. “But there’s a reason I’ve guarded it all these years. The boy buried there was a real nasty piece of work, and it’s better some things stay buried. Take it from someone who knew him.”

Over at the fireplace, Shadow turned to face her, but wouldn’t look at me.

When I’d found Shadow, or he’d found me—we’d both been dying. I'd been sick and needed something to latch onto, to keep me alive. He'd needed a life force to anchor himself to before he faded out completely.

Sometimes I still wasn’t sure who was using the other more.

“I can help you break the ties.” The lady watched me closely. “If that’s what you want.”

“Sounds nice,” I admitted. “But they’re what’s keeping me alive.”

“Then you’ve got yourself a bad deal,” she said. “I can fix that too, for a price.”

For a price. "That sounds familiar."

“Come on, Ivy,” Shadow said. “She’s trying to use you to get my bones and come after me, and that could hurt both of us—”

I didn’t even look at him. The lady shrugged. “Cheaper than half your soul. And your part will be easy.”

“Please,” Shadow said, crouching in front of the fire, outline of his hair flopping back. It was weird, seeing him shake it out of his eyes, like on some level he still remembered how to be human. Like he'd changed me, but like maybe it went both ways. “I need your help.”

I snorted, stared at the witch. “What am I supposed to do?”

“Knock her out,” Shadow said quickly. “I'll go check for guards.”

The lady reached to help me up. “Tell me who you’re bound with, for starters."

I hesitated, then took her hand.

And then I yanked her down and bashed her head against a side table.




Author's Note: This week, my story was inspired by The Fetish Of Chilunga, a story about a supernatural being (referred to as a "charm" or a "fetish" in Congo) who, "by his representative in the flesh, a princess, rules the country with a rod of iron." The idea of some kind of supernatural creature being tied to a human, and both of them being stronger for it, interested me. In the story, the creature mostly punishes disrespectful subjects, while the princess accepts offerings and makes rulings on its behalf. More than that, I was interested in their dynamic: what had brought them together, who was actually using whom, what strengths and weaknesses that partnership brought to the table. I didn't have time to explore all of that here, but this was some of it.

Bibliography: Notes on the Folklore of the Fjort by R. E. Dennett. Source: Mythology and Folklore UN-Textbook.

Image Credit: "Shadow Photography." Source: Wikimedia Commons.

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