Chapter 2: Rituals and Rules

Aunt Martha laid down three rules:

First: Burn the money at midnight—between 11 p.m. and 1 a.m. Only then.

Second: All the lights in the room must be off.

These I understood—solemn, ghost-story stuff. Midnight rituals, dark rooms. Lots of families have similar requests.

But the third rule: no mirrors or religious statues in the room. All had to go outside. That was new.

Most folks want their crosses or at least a prayer. But mirrors? Statues? She was adamant.

I smiled, trying to reassure her. My grandma always said the Virgin Mary watches over everyone, no matter what path they took. I tried to explain.

She grew agitated: "No statues, no icons, no crosses—none of that. My people, we don’t believe in your God."

So it was a matter of faith. Maybe the script was from some old tradition. America’s full of odd, beautiful pockets of belief.

I believe in the Virgin Mary myself. But this was a $150,000 job. I whispered a silent prayer for forgiveness as I wrapped up my statue of Mary. ‘Sorry, Grandma—just this once.’

I tried to take the statue outside, but the deadbolt wouldn’t budge. I pulled harder, then heard the scrape of metal outside. Aunt Martha was chaining the door shut.

The chain clanked. My breath hitched. Suddenly, the living room felt a lot smaller.

She spoke through the door: "You see, honey, if you burned it, you’d get your reward. But if you ran, you’d get double. I have to be sure." Gentle, but the chain rattled ominously.

She told me to pass the Mary statue through the window. She stood on the porch, hands outstretched. "Just pass it through, sweetheart. I’ll watch over it."

I handed it out. She waved her hand, "Oh, dear, I haven’t got the strength for that tonight." Funny, since she’d just hauled a suitcase of cash.

Afterward, she made me remove all mirrors—even the bathroom one. She said, "Don’t risk leaving any reflections. Smash it if you have to." I did, glass crackling under the hammer.

A van pulled up. Two burly guys hauled away the statue and mirror, then installed security bars on my window. The drill whined in the night air. Creepy, but hey—security’s security.

I quietly set up the fire pit, incense, and candles. Ritual is half the job. But the air in the room felt off. My skin prickled, like a draft from nowhere.

Inside the fire pit, I found a Civil War sticker—Abraham Lincoln’s faded face. Honest Abe, my childhood good luck charm. I worried it’d break Aunt Martha’s rule.

The glue was ancient, so I just closed the cabinet and room door. Out of sight, out of mind. That’s how my family did things—avoid God’s eyes.

Everything ready, I waited for midnight, hands trembling as I struck a match.

Before I could turn off the lights, the room went pitch black. This old house’s circuit breaker was outside. Aunt Martha must have flipped it. My phone died. It was just me and the dark.

I lit a candle, the flame throwing long shadows over the piles of money. My heart thudded.

I placed the plaque on the table, knelt, and offered three sticks of incense. The smoke curled, solemn and slow.

I looked at the stacks of cash and swallowed. What a waste. But I’d taken her money. Work is work.

Heart aching, I started feeding cash into the fire. The bills curled, blackened. The air filled with the sharp, chemical stink of scorched ink. My eyes watered. The fire’s green glow crawled up the walls.

I’d never seen green flames before. It reminded me of glow sticks at Fourth of July, or those weird science demos. A sickly, unnatural color. I shivered.

Burning money takes skill—too fast and the fire dies, too slow and you have to relight, which is unlucky. I lined up the bills in batches, keeping the flame steady.

I was deep in the rhythm when a faint sound made me freeze. The soft creak of a door, or maybe a whisper. The hair on my arms stood up.

The door opened by itself, knob turning, inch by inch. I stared, mouth dry, heart pounding.

No draft, no window open. But the door couldn’t stay open—not with that Lincoln sticker inside. I hurriedly burned a new bill, then rushed over and pushed the door shut.

No lock. I sat down, but the door swung open again, slow and spooky.

This wouldn’t do. I grabbed socks and T-shirts from the laundry basket, wedged them in the crack. As I did, I saw light outside the window.