When the Spirits Testify

         Jenson Barnard pushed open the door of the old Redline Garage, the hinges groaning like they’d been begging for oil since the last war. The place smelled of burnt rubber and old grease, a haze of dust floating in the shafts of light that cut through the grimy windows. Behind the counter stood Tater Loveless, the wiry little man who kept the shop running these days. The garage had been in his bloodline for generations, first his father’s, then his.

​

       But cars weren’t the real inheritance of the Loveless clan. Their truest legacy was darker, slick as oil and twice as staining: an empire built on other people’s weakness. On the hollow-eyed need of those chasing the next needle-prick of silence, the next hit to quiet their rattling bones.

​

      Jenson Barnard was one of them. You could see it plain as day, etched in the dull shine of his eyes, in the jittery rhythm of his step, in the way his head never stopped cutting glances over his shoulder, like he was being followed by ghosts only he could see.

​

      “What can I do for ya today, Jenson?” Tater asked, wiping grease from his hands with an old blue shop rag that had seen better days.

​

     “Oh, I just need some tail lights,” Jenson muttered, shifting his weight as his dull green eyes flicked around the garage walls, scanning like a man always expecting a shadow to move. His voice dipped lower. “Your sister around?”

 

     Tater snorted. “Nah. You know Brittany. Probably out stirring up trouble somewhere.”

 

     Jenson had known Brittany long before he knew trouble was her middle name. Back then, he was just an ordinary kid with an ordinary future. He’d gone to school with Brittany, but she’d always felt out of reach. He was quiet, reserved, and book-smart. She was wildfire in heels—too loud, too fast, too alive for anyone to hold.

​

      Her black Camaro was her trademark. She drove it like the devil was on her tail, blasting music that rattled windows, skipping school more often than she showed up. That recklessness caught up with her one night when she wrapped the car around a tree. She walked away with nothing but a scrape, while the quarterback riding shotgun, her newest fling, never got up again. Both had been drunk, both guilty. But Brittany did a stint in juvie, a slap on the wrist, and walked free. She always did. Chaos trailed her like perfume, yet somehow she kept stepping out untouched.

 

     Jenson, fresh out of college with a computer science degree, managing the local tech store, should’ve known better the day she walked into his store looking for a car stereo. Instead, he was stunned that she was even flirting with him. So, when she suggested they hang out after his shift, he said yes without hesitation.

 

     It changed everything.

 

     That night, sitting on the hood of his beat-up F-150 by the railroad tracks, she pulled out a glass pipe and promised him it would make sex feel like heaven. He only thought about her, the wild girl beside him, her hair catching the glow of the train lights as it thundered past. He took the hit.

 

     From that moment on, he wasn’t hooked just on Brittany. He was hooked on the crystal.

 

     The years since had chewed him up. The job gone. The apartment gone. His dignity gone. Back living with his mother while Brittany disappeared the second his wallet dried up.

 

     “Hundred bucks,” Tater said, dropping a box with the tail light inside onto the counter.

 

     “What?” Jenson blinked. “I thought it was eighty.”

 

    “New supplier. My price goes up, so does yours.” Tater’s shrug was casual, but his eyes had that cold Loveless glint.

 

     It wasn’t true, not really. But truth had never mattered to their kind. His mama had drilled it into them young: You’ll know when you’ve got ‘em. They’ll spend every dime chasing what you’ve got. That’s when you raise the price. Not double. Just enough to bleed ‘em slow. Keeps ‘em crawling back.

 

     She’d been right. She always was. Ruthless in business, even if she’d been soft at home.

​

     Jenson handed over the cash. He’d lifted it from his mother’s wallet when she sent him out for cigarettes. Now he’d have to steal the smokes instead of buying them. Sliding into her old ’98 Oldsmobile, he cranked the engine and headed toward the sagging trap house where Danny holed up. He had promised Danny he’d come by if he scored.

 

     The house looked worse every time Jenson pulled in. Someone had stretched a tarp full of holes across what used to be the porch, like a half-hearted bandage over a festering wound. He stepped inside, eyes straining to adjust to the gloom. Beer cans littered the floor, rattling under his boots as he kicked them aside.

 

     Every time he came here, he thanked God for his mama. Without her roof, he knew he’d be living in this rot, too.

A rat scurried across the living room, bold as a landlord. It didn’t flinch, didn’t hurry. It was at home here among the broken and the lost. Jenson shuddered.

 

     “Danny,” he called into the shadows. No answer.

 

      He checked the bathroom. A girl he didn’t know sat on the cracked toilet, a belt cinched around her arm, rig poised in her hand. Her eyes flickered his way but didn’t really see him. Jenson just nodded, like it was normal, and kept walking down the hall.

 

     Danny still didn’t answer. Maybe Cooper was around. He’d know where Danny had run off to.

 

     But when Jenson pushed open the blanket over the bedroom door, the air went out of him. His stomach knotted and heaved, but there was nothing in it to give. Cooper lay slumped on the mattress, skin sickly blue.

 

     No doubt about it. He was gone.

 

     “Shit.” The word slipped out like a prayer. Jenson didn’t know what to do. Couldn’t just leave him there. Couldn’t risk being seen either. Panic gnawed at him as he scanned the room. Then he spotted Cooper’s phone, face cracked, battery clinging at three percent. He grabbed it, wiped his palms on his jeans, and dialed the sheriff’s office.

 

     “Body here,” he muttered, rattling off the address before they could press him for a name. He hung up, wiped the phone clean, and set it back down.

 

      He slipped out fast, though it turned out he didn’t need to. By the time the cruisers rolled up, the ones who could still move scattered into the woods. The ones too strung out to run got hauled off in the backs of squad cars. Cooper was zipped into a body bag and carted away like he was nothing.

 

     There’d be no investigation. Not anymore. Just another overdose in a county drowning in them. To the cops, junkies weren’t victims; they were trash taking itself out. And if the supply kept thinning them out, well, eventually there’d be none left to bother with.

 

     The problem was, dealers made sure there were always new ones. Fresh bodies every day.

___________________________________________________________________________________

 

     Tom and Rosie sat down for supper at the old farmhouse table. Their little home wasn’t big, and it bore no fancy trappings. It was simple, practical, much like the man and woman who kept it, but it was a home in truth. Handmade curtains hung at the windows, the fading evening light casting slow, lazy shadows across the walls. A box fan hummed, pushing hot summer air in from the open screen door.

 

     The smell of supper lingered thick and warm. Pork chops, gravy, and potatoes filled the kitchen with the kind of scent that could stop a man on the road. Rosie still had a dusting of flour in her hair at the temple, a mark of her labor over the stove. Across from her, Tom checked his phone for the third time since sitting down.

 

    Rosie’s eyes lingered on the furrows deepening in his brow.

 

    “He’ll call, honey,” she said, her voice soft and steady.

 

     Tom leaned back from the meal she’d worked so hard to make, his plate still heavy with untouched food. The gravy had settled in the potatoes, the pork chop cooling where he’d only nudged it with his fork. That wasn’t like him. Tom usually ate enough for three men; years in the service had made sure of that. And besides, everybody knew Rosie’s cooking was the best for miles.

 

    “I just really thought he’d have called by now.” His sigh was long and heavy. “He looked serious when he said he wanted to take me up on my offer for help.”

 

     Someone else might have seen nothing but disappointment in Tom’s worn face. Rosie saw deeper. She saw the old lines of worry, the same ones etched there when their BethAnn was a little girl and feverish in the night. She knew how much he wanted to pull Cooper back from the edge. It broke them both to see the boy walk down this road of destruction. Yes, he’d made his share of choices, but the deck had been stacked against him from the start.

​

    When his parents died, the boy had been left with no one but his Aunt Jennifer and her husband, Ronnie, two drunks more interested in his check than in him. They’d hardly known him before, and they never tried to afterward. Ronnie was a burly man and a mean drunk, and Cooper often bore the brunt of it in those days.

 

     The first time Tom saw the boy with a black eye and wincing every time he coughed, he and Rosie had gone straight to the lawyer’s office, hoping to bring him home. But the law was the law, no blood kin, no rights. Rosie called the children’s services the very same day, but when they came, Cooper lied through his fear. Said the bruises came from a bike wreck. Said it was his fault. The case was dropped.

 

     So, Tom did what he could. He went down to the sawmill where Ronnie worked and had himself a talk with the man, maybe with more fists than words. After that, Ronnie never raised a hand to Cooper again, but he and Jennifer made sure to make the boy’s life hell in every other way.

 

     Tom would’ve done anything to spare him all that agony. He still carried the weight of it, still felt that maybe if he’d done more back then, Cooper wouldn’t be where he was now.

 

     Rosie, knowing her husband’s heart was near breaking, cleared the table quietly, then did the only thing she knew to do. She went to their room, closed the door, and prayed.

   

     Tom lingered at the doorway, listening as her voice lifted and trembled, crying out to God to ease the boy’s burden. He bowed his head, said his own silent prayer, then stepped out into the evening air, heading for the barn to check on Bess and the new calf.

   

     Night had begun to creep in, slow and certain, until the last of the daylight bled out across the ridge. The house settled quiet in the thick summer air. Rosie, with her apron still tied around her waist, stepped to the door and flipped on the porch light. The yellow glow cast a weak circle against the dark, drawing moths that fluttered and tapped at the glass.

​

     Out in the yard, Tom lingered, his boots crunching against the gravel as he made his way back from the barn. His heart felt heavier with every step, weighted with the silence of a boy who hadn’t called. He rubbed his jaw, tried to shake it off, but the worry sat on him like a sack of wet feed.

​

     As he neared the porch, he lifted his head and froze.

​

     There, standing at the top of the steps in the glow of the porch light, was Cooper. Clear as day. Shoulders slouched, hands shoved deep into his pockets, eyes shadowed but unmistakable. Tom’s chest lifted, relief flooding him.

 

     “Coop—” he started, a smile tugging at his mouth.

 

     But before the name was fully out, the figure was gone. Vanished, as if the night itself had swallowed him whole.

 

     Tom stopped dead still. His throat worked, dry. He blinked hard, shook his head, rubbed his eyes. Old fool, he thought. Your mind’s playing tricks.

 

     He climbed the steps slower than usual, the boards creaking under his weight, and pushed through the screen door. Inside, he splashed water on his face at the kitchen sink, the coolness biting against his flushed skin. He checked his phone again, thumb hovering over the screen longer than he meant to, hoping for a call that wasn’t there.

​

     At last, he slipped into the bedroom where Rosie was already lying with her Bible open on her lap. She looked up at him, but he only shook his head. Setting the phone on the nightstand, Tom eased down beside her, the heaviness of the day pressing down as he closed his eyes, praying the morning might bring better news.

_________________________________________________________________________________________________________

​

     Morning came hot and heavy, and news of the overdose had already seeped through the community like smoke through rafters. Everyone knew by breakfast. By noon, it was on every porch, whispered across every checkout line.

​

     Up on Main Street, where the maples threw shade across sidewalks, the Loveless house stood tall and white, two stories of respectability trimmed with black shutters. Fresh petunias overflowed from planters at the steps, and the flag on the porch stirred lazily in the still air. To anyone passing by, it looked like a picture out of a county calendar, the kind of place people pointed at and said, Now that’s how you keep a home.

​

     Inside, the air was cooler, heavy with the smell of lemon polish and yesterday’s biscuits. Marlene Loveless sat in her parlor, her hair pinned neatly, a fresh blouse crisp against her thin shoulders. She had once worked the front desk at Dr. Stanley’s office, knew every family by name, every birthday, every surgery date. Folks still remembered the way she’d laugh with them, pray with them, how she never forgot to send a casserole when grief came knocking. To the county, she was goodness itself.

​

      Tater leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, the grease still under his nails a sharp contrast to the spotless room.

​

     “Word’s out,” he said, his voice low. “They found Cooper last night. Whole town’s buzzing.”

​

      Marlene didn’t flinch, just folded her hands over her lap and tilted her head. The light from the lace-curtained window softened her face, made her look like a woman carved out of grace. “Poor boy,” she murmured. “Such a shame.”

​

     “Aren’t you worried?” Tater asked.

​

     “Lower your voice.” Marlene hissed, sharp as a switch. “Nicky is here.”

​

     Just then, a young woman in pale-blue scrubs stepped into the parlor.

​

     “Well, hello, Tater,” she smiled. “I didn’t hear you sneak in.”

​

     “Hey, Nick.” He tried to smile, but worry dragged at the corners of his mouth. “Just checkin’ on Momma.”

​

      Nicky had gone to school with him, and he’d always carried a soft spot for her. Hiring her to help with Marlene had been an easy choice. His mother’s COPD kept her tethered to an oxygen machine most days, and Nicky kept the house in order, cooking, cleaning, making sure Marlene had what she needed. She was a good girl, a single mother, and this job worked well for her. On days when the daycare wouldn’t take her little boy, Thomas, Marlene allowed her to bring him along. Folks in town called it kindness. To Nicky, it was a godsend.

​

     “Are you done with your breakfast?” Nicky asked.

​

     Marlene nodded. Nicky gathered the tray with its crumbs of toast and cooling eggs. “Well, I’ll leave y’all to it,” she said and headed toward the kitchen.

​

     As soon as her footsteps faded, Marlene turned back to her son. Her voice was no longer softened by the parlor light. It was hard, sharp, full of acid.

​

     “To answer your question, no, I’m not worried. And you shouldn’t be either.”

​

     “That’s the third OD this month,” Tater pressed.

​

     “No one gives a damn, Theodore.” She never called him Tater.

​

     He rolled his eyes. “People are tore up about this one. Cooper was young. A lot of folks had a soft spot for him.”

​

     “He was an orphan. No one’s too concerned. It’ll be fine. Sheriff Peterson won’t even investigate; you know that.” Her voice carried a cocky certainty.

​

     She had reason. She was right. The sheriff never batted an eye, not when his pockets swelled and his stomach got fatter with every sale Marlene and her son made.

​

     “It’s that H,” Tater muttered, pacing. “It wasn’t this bad when it was just Jory’s cookin’. I think we oughta quit sellin’ it for a while, let things cool down.”

​

      “Oh, hell.” Marlene’s eyes narrowed. “It’s part of it. If they’re too stupid to handle it, that’s on them. But…” she tapped a manicured nail against her armrest, “you may be right. Move the rest of what we’ve got. Then tell Jory to double the next order. When the H dries up, they’ll come crawling back for whatever’s left. And they’ll pay whatever we ask. The withdrawals are worse than death, so they’ll beg for it.”

​

     Tater nodded, though worry still pulled his brow tight. He wouldn’t lose sleep over Cooper Hammond, but the thought of prison put a stone in his gut.

​

      He left his mother’s parlor with its lemon-polished furniture and lace curtains, stepped into the blinding sun, and climbed into his brand-new F-250. The diesel engine roared as he pulled away. Gravel spun out from under his tires as he headed toward Jory’s to deliver his mother’s orders.

___________________________________________________________________________________

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      Tall grass brushed Tater’s knees as he dropped down from his truck and scanned the yard. Rusting old cars littered the place like forgotten tombstones, some stripped down to bone and frame. He spotted Jory hunched under the hood of a Buick, cursing low.

​

      “Hey, little cousin,” Tater called.

​

     Jory raised his head and threw up a grease-smeared hand in return. Folks around here would’ve called him scraggly, beard overgrown and unkempt, thin hair pulled too long under a sweat-stained ball cap. His eyes carried the same dull, haunted gaze so many others wore these days.

​

     “What’s goin’ on, man?” Jory growled through gritted teeth as he wrestled an old spark plug free     .

​

     “Mother sent me,” Tater said, leaning against the Buick’s fender.

​

      Jory glanced up with a crooked grin. “Careful there. Don’t wanna get those fancy clothes dirty.”

​

     Tater rolled his eyes. He was no stranger to work. He might not wrench under hoods the way he once did, not since he’d taken up more of the family’s business, but he still knew his way around a car.

​

     “Let’s go inside and talk,” he said.

​

      Jory wiped his hands on a shop rag, straightened, and led the way toward the trailer. It was a far cry from Marlene’s big white house or even the tidy little brick ranch Tater had just bought down the road from her. The porch leaned so bad it looked ready to fold, groaning under their boots as they climbed up.

​

       Inside, the smell of dope slapped them in the face. A window A/C rattled and buzzed, trying and failing to cut through the chemical haze.

​

     “What’s she want now?” Jory asked, bitterness rough in his voice.

​

     “Double,” Tater replied flatly.

​

     Jory nearly spit out the soda in his hand. “Hell, I thought she was pushin’ all that other shit now.”

​

     “You complainin’? Means a bigger payday for you.”

​

      Jory swallowed the retort burning in his throat. He knew his cut would never come close to Dear Aunt Marlene’s or Cousin Theodore’s, but he wasn’t fool enough to say it out loud.

​

     “Double it is,” he said instead. He knew better than to cross her. Everyone did. They saw the casseroles and birthday cakes, the way she smiled in church. But Jory knew the truth, knew how cold she really was. Ice water ran in her veins.

She’d proved it years ago. When the heat got too close, Marlene hadn’t blinked to throw her own sister to the wolves. Darlene, Jory’s momma, had been gentle, meek compared to Marlene’s domineering ways. His biological father had been nothing more than a fling of hers, a cook in Marleen’s operation at the time. When the law pressed in, she sent his old man into hiding and turned both CPS and the sheriff on her own sister.

​

     Darlene went to prison. Jory went to Marlene’s house until the case cooled, then got shipped off to his father to learn the family trade. By the time his momma’s withdrawals finished chewing her up, she was dead in a jail cell.

​

     When the news came, Marlene hadn’t shed a tear. Darlene was too weak for this world, she said. And that was all.

​

     “Well, I guess I better get on down to the garage,” Tater said, eyeing the dark circles under Jory’s eyes. “Get some sleep, man. How long you been up?”

​

     “Oh, just a couple days,” Jory muttered. “Looks like I’ll be up a couple more if I’m gonna double the next batch.” He gave a hollow chuckle and shook his head.

​

     “I’ll see ya in a couple days.”

​

     “See ya, Tater.” Jory gave a lazy wave as they stepped out the door.

​

     A few minutes later, Jory was off for supplies in his beat-up old Bronco while Tater hauled himself up into his jacked-up truck. Jory chuckled, shaking his head at the sight of his short cousin climbing into a rig he sure as hell didn’t need.

___________________________________________________________________________________

​

     Tom sat in his truck, the cab pointed toward the barn, the bed loaded down with feed. He’d just come back from the mill where he’d picked up grain for the cattle. It was there he’d learned why Cooper never called, why he never showed.

​

     At the counter, Bill had looked at him with sad eyes. “I sure am sorry, Tom. I know how much you and Rosie loved that boy.”

​

     “What?” The word barely left his lips, though deep down he already knew. His stomach dropped like a stone.

​

     “Cooper,” Bill said gently. “They found him in that old shack. I thought you knew.”

​

     Tom only shook his head and slid the money across the counter. His throat locked up tight, and no words would come. He walked out, climbed into the truck, and waited in silence while the boys loaded the feed. Then he drove home with the weight of it pressing heavier every mile.

​

     The whole way back, he replayed the night Cooper had climbed out of his truck. He should’ve stopped him. He saw again the dirty-faced little boy chasing behind the tobacco setter, all knees and elbows, laughing in the sun. He couldn’t believe it. His heart was broken clean through, and he thought of Rosie. She’d loved Cooper like her own. Now he had to be the one to break her heart.

​

     Feeling like a coward, Tom sat in the truck instead, staring out at the corral he’d built for Bess and Etta to move in and out of the barn. The calf was still beautiful and new, its smallness a reminder of how much Cooper had been cheated.

​

     “At least now you’re with your mama and daddy, boy,” Tom whispered, tears streaking down his face. “I bet Miss Etta’s up there singin’ with the angels.”

​

     The air inside the cab seemed to shift, turn cool against his skin. A whisper drifted through it:

​

     “Not yet.”

​

     Tom stiffened, every hair on his neck rising with the breeze that followed. His heart thudded hard.

​

     Shaking his head, he muttered, I must be losin’ my mind.

​

     He opened the door, boots hitting gravel, and braced himself to walk inside and break Rosie’s heart.

​

      They sat at the table, coffee cooling between their hands, eyes red from crying. Tom had held Rosie while she sobbed into his shoulder, and when she’d finally caught her breath, she called BethAnn to tell her the news.

​

     “Oh no,” their daughter cried. “I’ll be on my way soon as I get the babies settled with Alex, Momma.”

​

     BethAnn lived over in Whitney, a few towns away. She’d come that evening, but for now it was just the two of them, alone in the house that suddenly felt too quiet, too empty.

​

     At last, Rosie broke the silence. “Call Jennifer,” she said softly. “Tell her we’ll pay for the funeral so he can be buried next to Etta. That’s what she would have wanted.”

​

     Tom nodded. Most folks would’ve been too proud to accept such an offer, but not Cooper’s aunt and uncle. If someone offered to foot a bill or hand out a dollar, they’d take it without shame. Tom and Rosie both knew that. Still, they were his only blood kin left in the world, so he made the call.

​

     “That’s fine by me,” Jennifer slurred drunkenly on the other end of the line. That was all.

​

     So Tom and Rosie set to making the arrangements, planning the funeral,  the last act of love they could give poor Cooper in this world.

​

     It was a simple service at the local funeral home. The parking lot held only a handful of cars, most of them belonging to the funeral home staff. Tom and Rosie stood by the casket, steady as they could manage.

​

     Jennifer came in, glanced down at her nephew, and for the briefest of moments, her face cracked. Tears welled, spilled, and she wept quietly. Then Ronnie stepped up beside her, taking her arm harder than necessary. She winced, and Tom noticed the faint bruise already there, the same one she’d carried for years where his fingers dug in.

​

      “It’s time to go,” Ronnie muttered, low but sharp.

​

     Jennifer straightened, dried her eyes, and walked out stiff-backed. She wouldn’t come to the graveside, Tom knew. And for an instant, he felt a pang of pity for her miserable life. But when he looked down at Cooper’s still face, all remorse for Jennifer burned away.

​

      The following morning they laid Cooper to rest beside Etta Hammond. Only Tom, Rosie, BethAnn, and a few church members gathered as the casket was lowered into the ground. Tom stood watching, his hat pressed tight in his hands.

​

      A hand touched his shoulder.

​

     “I’m sorry, Tom. I wanted to change. Things really need to change.”

​

      The voice was Cooper’s.

​

      Old Tom’s head jerked up, his breath catching. For a heartbeat, he saw Cooper’s face, clear, young, and aching with regret. Then, like smoke in the wind, it faded away.