The Inverted Verses

It was the summer I turned nine, and our world had shrunk to a rusted single-wide tucked into the pine woods of northern Minnesota. My mother, two brothers, my little sister, and I shared that creaking metal box while our stepfather was away—not in prison, but on an oil rig in Alaska, sending money that never quite stretched far enough. We lived in the shadow of the old lumber mill, its smokestack a black finger against the sky, and the nearest neighbor was a half-mile down a dirt road that turned to soup every time it rained.

That night, a storm had rolled in from the lake, rattling the windows and making the tin roof sound like a drum. We were huddled around the television, watching some old horror movie with a vampire that had too many teeth. My mother had fallen asleep in the recliner, her mouth slightly open, and my youngest sister was curled up on the floor with our dog, a mutt named Biscuit. My older brother, Dale, and I shared a room at the back, while the others had beds in the living area. The movie ended with a freeze-frame of the monster’s face, and the static hissed like a snake. Dale turned it off, and we all shuffled to our spots, the storm humming outside.

I don’t know how long I slept, but something pulled me awake. It wasn’t a sound, not exactly—more like a pressure in the air, a change in the rhythm of the rain. Dale was already sitting up in his bed, his eyes wide in the dark. ‘Did you hear that?’ he whispered. I shook my head, but then I heard it: a low, gurgling laugh, like someone choking on water. It came from the living room. My mother and siblings slept on, oblivious. Dale and I exchanged a look, and without a word, we crept to the doorway.

The living room was lit only by the gray glow of the TV, which was on but showing nothing but fuzz. The cable cord—the thick black one that ran from the wall to the back of the set—was writhing on the floor like a snake, whipping up and down in a frantic dance. The static on the screen rippled and warped, forming shapes that made my stomach twist. I could hear my mother’s soft snoring from the recliner, and I wanted to scream, but my voice was stuck.

Dale grabbed my arm and pulled me toward the kitchen, which was just past the TV. We had to leap over the thrashing cable, and I swear I felt it brush against my ankle, cold and slick like a fish. The kitchen was dark, but the moonlight from the window caught a figure sitting at our small table. It was a man—a huge man, with shoulders that looked too wide for the chair. His back was to us, and he was hunched over something. I could see his hands, covered in thick black hair, turning pages. He was reading a book, and as we got closer, I realized it was our mother’s Bible, the one with the cracked leather cover. But he was holding it upside down.

The laughter started again, and this time I realized it was coming from his mouth, but his shoulders weren’t shaking. He was laughing with his throat, making a wet, bubbling sound that didn’t match any human emotion. He turned his head slightly, and I saw his profile: a heavy brow, a jaw that seemed too long, and eyes that gleamed with a sickly yellow light. His hair was everywhere, matted and wild, and he smelled like wet earth and rotten leaves.

Then he spoke, his voice low and rumbling, but the words were wrong—they were in a language I didn’t know, but somehow I understood them. ‘The child of the new moon will read the inverted truth.’ He turned a page and pointed a gnarled finger at a passage. I saw the words, but they were rearranged, forming a name I didn’t recognize. He rose from the chair, and he was even taller than I’d thought, his head grazing the ceiling. He took a step toward us, and the floorboards groaned. Dale pulled me back, and we stumbled into the hallway, but he didn’t follow. He just stood there, staring at us with those yellow eyes, and then he smiled—a smile that was too wide, with too many teeth.

We ran to my mother, shaking her awake, but she only mumbled and turned over. My brothers and sister slept through it all. When we looked back at the kitchen, the man was gone. The Bible lay open on the table, still upside down, and the TV was black. The storm had passed, and the only sound was Biscuit whimpering from under the couch.

The next morning, my mother found the Bible in the kitchen, but she didn’t notice anything wrong. She just said she must have left it there. But I saw the pages, and they were covered in a fine dust that wasn’t there before. Dale and I never spoke about it, not directly, but that night changed something. I started noticing things: the way the trees outside bent toward our trailer, the way the lake water smelled like copper, the way my mother’s eyes sometimes flickered yellow in the lamplight. And sometimes, when I was alone, I’d hear that gurgling laugh, soft and far away, and I knew it was waiting for the next child to read the inverted verses.