Silver Springs State Park

1.4 Miles Northeast

8:12 PM

Without lanterns or torches, the three old women—hardly more than wisps of skin, hair, and bone—tread through the dense vegetation with the grace-filled ease of dancers on a polished ballroom floor. Wearing dark robes, covered in a thick weave of barn owl feathers, the wraith-like trio slip through the brambles and palmetto fronds, making their way to their hallowed destination with solemn purpose.

Not a word is uttered between them as they duck under low-hanging branches and scramble up overturned decomposing trees. Instead of talking, the three strange figures hum the tune of an ancient hymn they’d learned as children, a song of the Unnamed Ones. A song of those who ruled this land long before the white man ever set foot upon its pristine sands.

The humming increases in tempo as they scramble across the uneven earth covered in wooden debris and river flotsam washed ashore after the rainfall two days earlier. They wear no shoes, and yet seemed impervious to the rough terrain—testament to the years they have taken this pilgrimage whenever the need has arisen.

They are, of course, aware of the two intruders who now encroach on their sacred land just a little more than two miles away. They are aware of the mens’ piqued interest in the g’hakwann’ahk—what the Seminole had called the entrail tableau that had been discovered earlier that day. Yet they pay the men no heed. There is no time. The sun has set, and soon, those that they serve will awaken and would be ravenous for their victuals, as well as a new set of fine attire with which to adorn themselves. It wouldn’t do to let their Mistresses go unattended for too long. It wouldn’t do at all.

Besides, there are more of their sisters out there, tasked with keeping an eye on the interlopers. Should the menfolk become a problem, the others will take care of them. Of that, they have no doubt.

So, they continue their trek without concern, following the curve of the spring, past a cluster of moss-covered cypress trees, and finally find themselves in a clearing that opens to the silvery crescent of the moon rising just above the treetops. In the center of the clearing, two freshly covered graves lay closed to the world of the living, their soil still damp from the day’s humidity.

There should be three graves here, but Sister Becca had let one of the little ones slip through her fingers. He’d be found soon enough, they are sure. And Sister Becca—the youngest among them—would be punished for her ineptitude in due time. But for now, they have a task to uphold, and nothing can hinder them from it.

The three old waifs shuffle to the closest of the graves and squat down on their hands and knees before jabbing at the earth with long, gnarled fingers tipped with dagger-like nails.

“Do you think we gave them enough air,” asks Sister Becca as they frantically churn up the grave. Compared to the others, she is portly and the exertion is already playing havoc on her breathing. The task of feeder is new to her, and she isn’t quite up to the challenge of all that it required of her. “They must be alive!”

“They’ll be fine,” Sister Gertrude says, whose stringy white hair was covered by a feather-woven hood.

“Perfectly fine,” says Sister Othelia, the third and thinnest of the trio. “They’re strong ones, these two. And we gave ‘em plenty of air. Too much, if ya ask me. There’ll still be quite a bit of fight in ‘em once we’ve dug ‘em out, I’ll bet. Too much fight in ‘em, I fear.”

“Enough talk!” hisses Sister Gertrude. At a hundred and nine years old, she is by far the oldest of the three. And the one with the least patience. “We’re runnin’ short on time. Work! Put yer backs into it.”

Now frenzied, they tear at the moist soil, flinging the debris over their frail shoulders in hurried, jerking motions. After a while, Becca gasps. Gertrude, excited now, offers a gleeful shout.

There, in the grave, just as they’d left it earlier that day, is the plump pale flesh of a human leg. A child’s leg. All tight skin around scrumptious muscle and bone.

Quickly, they wipe at the dirt revealing more of the leg and a pair of Converse sneakers attached to a wriggling foot toward one end. A pair of ghastly-colored swim trunks toward the other.

The sisters continue flinging away the topsoil until the child underneath is completely revealed. It is a boy of about eight. His scraggly blonde hair is tasseled and matted in dirt and worms. His bright blue eyes are closed tight, and he whimpers as he slumbers from the drug they’d given him earlier that day. His nose and mouth are covered in a clear plastic mask attached by a thin hose leading down to the side of his right leg, where a small air tank nestles close to his body. The sisters watch for a moment, anticipating the fate that would befall the boy later that evening. They giggle a bit, then the youngest of them uncaps a syringe she’s kept hidden in her cloak, and stabs the boy’s arm with it, pressing down on the plunger.

“He’ll sleep for a few hours more with that,” she says. “Shouldn’t be much bother to us at this point.”

The other two sisters nod their approval, then scurry over to the next grave where they begin the digging process all over again. The girl will surely have survived her earthen larder, just as her brother had. They are sure of it. Then, they would be prepared for their Mistresses. These two would certainly make a great feast. Their skins, the finest of raiments. Their friend, who had escaped, will soon join them.

But they are running out of time. The Stikini would be awakening soon, and they would be famished. It wouldn’t do to keep them waiting. It wouldn’t do at all.

Next Chapter: Chapter 3