1
Harlem, New York — 1965
The sound of splintering wood shook the apartment.
"YOU CAN'T DO NOTHIN' RIGHT! YOU HEA'R ME? NUN'! YOU AND THESE CURSED ASS CHILREN DONE RUINED MY DANM LIFE!"
A kitchen chair flew across the room, crashing into the wall hard enough to crack the plaster.
Eloise jumped.
Her mama stumbled backward, shielding her face as tears streamed down her cheeks.
"Damian... please..." she pleaded. "The children—"
"I don't care who's watchin'!" he roared. "Ain't nobody gonna tell me how to run my own house!"
Seven-year-old Eloise stood frozen in the hallway, her heart pounding so hard it hurt. Beside her, five-year-old Otis clung to the hem of her nightgown, his tiny fingers shaking.
"'Loise..." he whispered. "Make Daddy stop."
She looked down at him, fighting back tears of her own.
"I can't, baby."
Another bottle smashed against the fireplace, showering the floor with glass.
"You hear me, Ruth?" Damian shouted, pointing a trembling finger at his wife. "I work myself to the bone while you sit here fillin' these children's heads with foolishness!"
"I ain't done nothin' but love you," Ruth cried.
His face twisted with rage.
Then his eyes drifted toward the hallway.
Toward Eloise.
Toward Otis.
For a moment, the apartment fell quiet.
"What y'all lookin' at?" he growled.
Eloise instinctively stepped in front of her little brother.
"We wasn't meanin' no harm, Daddy."
He snatched the family portrait off the mantel and hurled it.
It shattered against the wall behind them.
Ruth screamed.
"Eloise! Take your brother and run!"
Eloise didn't hesitate.
She grabbed Otis's hand, and together they tore down the narrow hallway as another deafening crash echoed through the apartment. Behind them, their father's shouting swallowed their mother's cries, and the walls seemed to shake with every step.
Otis squeezed her hand so tight it hurt.
"Eloise... where we goin'?"
She didn't answer.
She didn't know.
______
Mama, had me long before she ever met Damian.
I wasn't his child.
She used to tell me that when they first met, he seemed like the kind of man every woman prayed for. Gentle. Hardworking. Charming enough to make a room smile. So she married him, believing she'd finally found someone to give us the life we deserved.
She didn't know the truth.
Or maybe the truth was there all along, waiting until the wedding ring was on her finger before it showed itself.
To everyone else, Damian was a good, hardworking, God fearing man.
Behind our front door...
He was a monster.
Living with him wasn't just hell.
It was a nightmare.
He'd stumble through the front door long after the sun had gone down, reeking of beer and cheap women's perfume. He'd sneer at me and Otis like we were something stuck to the bottom of his shoe before turning all that anger on Mama.
Some nights, I'd press my hands over Otis's ears, hoping it'd drown out the sounds.
It never did.
Then morning would come.
Mama would cover the bruises with powder, Damian would sit at the kitchen table seeping coffee while reading the newspaper like he hadn't nearly torn our family apart the night before, and we'd all pretend nothing had happened.
That was our normal.
But when the house finally grew quiet and Damian drifted off to sleep, Mama would tuck me and Otis into bed and tell us stories.
Not fairy tales.
Stories about powers... about the Seven deadly Sins, Endless beings, Immortals, Fallen angels, demons.... and about sorcery older than the world itself.
She always said every person was born with power.
"Most folks just don't know it's there," she'd whisper. "And if you don't know you got it, you can't ever learn to wield it."
Then she'd smile at us, her eyes shining in a way I never could explain.
"You two were chosen."
"Chosen for what?" Otis would always ask.
"To save us all."
Every morning at exactly five o'clock, she'd wake us before the birds had even started singing.
No matter if it was raining.
No matter if it was freezing.
No matter how tired we were.
"Again," she'd say as we ran through the empty Harlem streets.
We never questioned her.
She'd only smile—that same strange, unsettling sinister smile—and cup our faces in her hands.
"You need to be strong," she'd murmur, her voice soft enough to sound like a prayer.
"For what's coming."
At seven years old...
I thought every mama raised her children that way.
______
Mama knew I loved to sing.
Every Sunday morning, we'd put on our church clothes and walk a few blocks to the little Baptist church on the corner. Soon as the choir started warming up, Mama would nudge me with her elbow and grin.
"Gon' head now, bless these folks' ears, 'Loise."
I'd roll my eyes like I didn't want to, but truth be told, I loved every second of it.
Church was the only place I ever saw Mama look... peaceful.
Like she could finally breathe.
She'd greet folks at the door, help collect the offering, straighten up the pews after service, and spend a few minutes talking with Pastor Williams before we left.
People were always stopping her.
"Ruth, that girl can sang."
"Eloise got a beautiful voice."
"You must be real proud."
Mama would just smile that soft smile of hers.
"I surely am."
Then she'd wrap an arm around my shoulders and say, "Baby, the Lord kissed your voice. You sing sweet enough to make the angels cry."
Back then, I thought she was just bein' a mama.
I didn't know she meant every word.
Sundays were the closest thing we had to happiness.
At least...
Until we got home.
Soon as the front door shut, it was like the Devil himself had been waiting inside.
Damian would get right in Mama's face, his breath sour with whiskey.
"You some kinda whore?" he'd spit. "Saw you all up in that pastor's face. You just love folks lookin' at you, don't you?"
Mama's hands would start shaking.
"I wasn't doin' nothin', Damian."
"And what's this?" He'd grab at the hem of her skirt. "Why you got this on? You sellin' yourself now?"
"I ain't..." she'd stammer, her voice barely above a whisper. "This my longest skirt. We don't even speak 'cept after service. That's all."
He'd laugh.
"Yeah... alright. You think you foolin' me."
Then his face would change.
The smile would disappear.
"You can't leave me, Ruth."
His voice got so quiet it was almost worse than when he yelled.
"You hear me? You ever think about leavin'... I'll kill you."
Silence.
Then he'd straighten his jacket like he hadn't said a thing.
"I'm goin' out."
The front door slammed behind him so hard the picture frames rattled on the walls.
Mama wouldn't cry.
Not while he was gone.
She'd just stand there for a long while, staring at the door.
Then she'd look at me and Otis...
Smile like everything was alright...
And ask what we wanted for supper.
