Hello, dear travelers. Before we begin, I wanted to remind you that since we're at the end of the month, following today's episode, there will be a ritual of thanks honoring those who donated to the show's Buy Me a Coffee link. If you'd like to take part, feel free to stay after the credits and share in the magic. If you'd like to have your own name added to the spell, receive our blessing, and support our growth, that link will be waiting in the show notes for you whenever you're ready. No gift too large, no gift too small. That said, on with the show. Signed in blood is a ritual offering to the keeper of stories per the terms of our pact. Let all parties be aware these are tales of horror. They may not be suitable for all audiences. Listener discretion is advised. The drive through the driftless area is harrowing, snow battering the car from all sides. At several points, the visibility is so bad that the road disappears in a cloud of static, as white as Jason's knuckles, gripped around the steering wheel. The Camry's heater is working overtime, fighting the encroaching frost on the windshield as they carve a path through the packed snow obscuring the state highway. Kat hasn't spoken a word since they left the burning remains of Ardent Hollow in their rear view. In any other circumstance, he'd try coaxing her into conversation, but every ounce of concentration he has is being funneled into keeping them on the road. He's almost grateful for the excuse, as he has no idea what to say. The snow lets up after an hour, just as they reach the Wisconsin border. Before them, the massive green arches of the Dubuque, Wisconsin Bridge stretch over the black waters of the Mississippi River like a sphinx made of steel and concrete. There are few other motorists on the road tonight. Most sensible people are at home enjoying Christmas Eve with their families. Even with just the two of them on the bridge, he can feel the rumble and vibration of the grooves and joints melt into a steady growl as they plow forward. He can't see the Mississippi, but a part of him can feel it surge beneath them. Unbidden, he hears Mrs. Bushby, his high school English teacher, reciting the Great Gadsby. So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past. Above them, mounted to the steel truss superstructure, a sign welcomes them to Iowa, fields of opportunity. He laughs bitterly to himself. They'd changed the motto last year from a place to grow. There was a time, maybe in the distant past, where both platitudes might have been true. But anyone who's grown up and escaped the endless fields knows better. After another hour of suffocating silence, he sees the darkened livestock barns that form the border of the Delaware County Fairgrounds. All at once he's three years old again, holding tightly to his father's calloused hand as they navigate throngs of fairgoers. The pungent scent of manure is overwhelming even now, even if only in his memory. The fairgrounds give way to residences, garages, and auto shops. And before he knows it, they've reached downtown Manchester, its red brick courthouse and imposing clock tower staring down at him in silent reproach. It looks nothing like the Ardent Hollow Courthouse, and yet it's exactly the same. Yeah, yeah, he says to himself. Fuck you two. A sharp inhale breaks the silence. He turns to see Kat wincing as she examines the burn on her arm. A row of circular blisters wraps around her wrist. A mark she'll carry for the rest of her life, however long that may be. Despite the burn, she hasn't taken the bracelet off. He has no illusions that she's doing it for his benefit, however. Now that Sophie's domain is no more, that little stone trinket is the only thing keeping her mind closed from invasion. You okay? He asks, cringing internally at the stupidity of the question. Cat? Only silence. She cradles her arm before her, eyes fixed outside the window at the passing Christmas decorations. It's pretty, right? This is my hometown. It's where I grew up. Are we burning this one down too? Ouch. Believe me, there was a time when that's all I dreamt of. She turns in her seat away from him. They take a right on Highway 13, heading north out of town. Before long, they pass the Quaker Mill Pond, completely frozen over and reflecting the glare of the Camry's headlights. They turn on Firefly Road, tracing the path of the Makokata River for a time before turning yet again onto the gravel path that leads to home. Jason performs each turn unconsciously, each twist reflected in his gut as the road brings him back to where everything began. The house is as he remembers, as he knew it would be. The violence that scarred it has been covered in new wood, plaster, and fresh paint, as if it had never happened. The white of the two-story farmhouse is cut only by the stately brick chimney that sprouts out of the little garden where his sister Mary used to play. He pulls the Camry to a stop just a few feet from the front porch and cuts the engine. Without waiting for instruction, Kat exits the car and walks up the steps to wait by the front door, hands thrust in the pockets of her coat. He grabs their bags before joining her on the porch, bending down and lifting a corner of the welcome mat. The little brass key waits in its customary place. The heat is on as they enter, and when he turns on the light, it reveals a warm, furnished home in perfect order. Listen, Kat. I just want to go to bed, she says, the tone of her voice speaking louder than her actual words. He looks at her a moment, remembering countless fights he had with his own father in this house. His dad would have forced the issue. His mom, who drew her last breath ten feet from where they're standing, would have let him rest. Yeah, he says. You can take Kelly's room. Follow me. He drops her suitcase in his sister's room, the one she'd fought so hard for when it was clear that she and Mary would be at each other's throats if their parents didn't concede. He points out the bathroom, but Kat closes the door slowly before he can finish. Okay then. He walks down the hall and tosses his own bag on his old bed. He doesn't need to turn the lights on. He already knows that it will match his last memory of the place clearly. The entire house is a shrine to a past cut short and a future that will never arrive. He walks back downstairs, skipping the third step that always groans before crossing through the kitchen to the side door. The cold of the East Iowa winter is right where he left it, and in a moment it seeps back into his bones where it belongs. He leans on the railing, bathed in the halo of the porchlight, as he stares out at the countryside blanketed with snow. Above him hangs the dinner bell that his mom would ring with all her might, the one you could hear from the woods nearby, and the next property over. His neighbors would laugh at how you always knew when dinner was served at the Argyle house. God help you if you didn't come running when that damn bell rang. For a haunted house, it's really quite beautiful, isn't it? He hears the familiar voice break the silence and turns to see Stolis approach, hands raised slightly. His charcoal woolen suit is complemented by a flowing black scarf that whips behind him like a cape. Jason lets out an exhausted sigh. Well look who it is, he says as he pulls his jacket to the side, revealing the dagger strapped to his chest. Benedicthead Arnold. Stolis slows his pace but continues walking forward with a slight shrug. A bit forced, old friend. Not your best. Haven't been sleeping well. Thanks for that, by the way. Now what the fuck do you want? To talk. Just to talk. Stolis comes to a stop, hands still raised in supplication. Jason stares at him for a hard moment before his shoulders drop. Fuck it. I'm too tired to fight anyway. You want a beer? The demon prince grins. That would be lovely. Fine. Wait for me out front. You're not welcome in this house. Jason chucks the empty bottle out into the front lawn and watches as it sails in a lazy arc before sinking into a snowdrift. His first empty had landed closer to the house. He always was a better shot when he drank. You know that song, I'll Be Home for Christmas? Bing Crosby was a personal friend of mine, Stolis replies, polishing off his first bottle and reaching out for a second. So pretentious. Jason chuckles. Anyway, it's been in my head all night. I prepare, given the circumstances. Sure. But the thing that I keep coming back to is that people keep singing it today, not knowing that it was a dedication to soldiers in World War II who couldn't make it home. Enough time goes by. People lose that part. The part that matters. Something on your mind, old friend? Just thinking about inheritance. What I got passed to me. What I'm leaving to her. He takes a swig from his bottle as he stares down the gravel road, being quickly buried beneath the snow. Why are you here, Stolis? The latter doesn't look at him, his avian eyes gazing far off into the night. There's an eclipse tomorrow, he says after a time. You won't be able to see it from here, with the weather indoor. But it won't happen again on Christmas in this part of the world for another 300 years. Of course, Christmas is just a day like any other. And eclipses happen multiple times a year. Neither mean anything. And yet they both can mean everything. Jason stares at him. You, my friend, are a Christmas eclipse. I had to come and see. And to bid you farewell. Jason whistles softly. You're not the sentimental type. I must really be something special. Not enough to keep from selling me out, though. Stolis nods gently. I came to you first. Years later than you could have. Jason scoffs. Why now? After everything? Stolis meets his eye. Because it wasn't time yet. That's not an answer. Perhaps not, Stolis says, getting to his feet. But as meager a truth as it may be, it's the one I have. He pauses for a moment. Of all my students over these past many centuries, you were one of my favorites. But no, you're right. To prevent what's coming, no one is above sacrifice. Not even me. You don't seem very confident in my chances. Because I don't need them to win. I just need you to run out of options. Once you do, Stolis points to the dagger, Catherine will be cut free from the ties of this world you brought her into. And you really think, once she's under his domain, that you'll have a better chance? You should take it as a compliment, Stolis says as he takes a drink. I respect your cunning more than I fear his power. Your respect and a dollar gets me a soda. Jason sighs. I take it this means the Jamies are both hail and hardy. Stolis grins ruefully. They had a few disagreements with my little sister's former subjects that took time to sort out. But yes. Figures. How long do I have? Stolis looks at him. You'll have Christmas. I can guarantee they won't call on you before then. Sure. I'm a demon, not a monster, he says, getting to his feet and straightening his suit. Spend one last Christmas with your daughter, Jason. We've both made our plans. There's nothing further to do now. Let whatever comes come after. Jason finishes his beer and stands, facing the closest thing he's had to a friend in many years. I guess this is it then. Yes. For what it's worth, I am sorry. Yeah. See you around. I'm sure. Farewell. Jason watches the snow for a few more minutes after the shadow that was stolis bleeds back into the darkness above. He turns slowly and makes his way inside. There are still a few things to prepare before morning. The morning light stabs at Kat's lidded eyes, forcing her awake in a room she doesn't recognize. The nightmare she'd been trapped in quickly recedes, to be replaced with pictures of horses hanging on the eggshell-colored walls, alongside paintings of roses and other flowers. Her Aunt Kelly must have been a nature lover. A smell wafts in from beneath the crack of the door, a scent of cedar, sweetness, and warm earth. Cinnamon? She opens the door to find the whole house bombarded with the wonderful aroma, and her stomach dances in anticipation and desire. She descends the stairway, noting a plastic Christmas tree in the living room that hadn't been there last night. Turning the corner, she finds her father in the kitchen, pulling a tray of cinnamon rolls from the oven. What's this? Hey kiddo. Morning. Merry Christmas. Her eyes go back and forth between her father and the baked goods. There was a tradition when I was growing up that breakfast on Christmas morning meant cinnamon rolls. He says. The look on his face is alien to her. Uh no, actually. There was a tube of Pillsbury already in the fridge. We were never that fancy. She looks at them in suspicion. How long have they been there? Is that even safe? He turns away, grabbing a pair of scissors to cut the icing packet. Don't worry about that. Everything in this house gets replaced every week or so. It's don't worry about it. Cool, another secret. She takes a seat at the kitchen table, letting the silence between them swell in waves. Jason finishes icing the rolls, placing a plate with one in front of her. The icing has already begun to melt, but she's too hungry to care. In no time, she's left with an empty plate and sticky fingers. Uh, I should have waited to put the frosting on, he says. It's been years since I've done this. She doesn't reply, staring ahead as he takes a seat to her side. Kat, we should talk. I tried talking. She says, without looking at him. You didn't want to listen. Kat, I don't know what she told you, but that it was complicated. I asked you to help my friend. You killed her instead. It seems pretty simple. Your friend? Kit Kat, she was going to eat you. God, you really think I'm stupid, don't you? The words hit him sideways. Not because they're correct, but because he remembers a time long ago when he said them to his own father at this table. No, of course not. I know what she was trying to do. I know what she wanted. Then why would you put yourself in that position? He's trying hard not to pinch the bridge of his nose in the same way his dad would. Because this wasn't like the others. We were going to work together to stop them from killing any more girls. Is that what she told you? Cat, she was lying to you. Oh, she was lying to me? She was lying, Jason? The way she says his name, the first time she's ever said it, feels like a slap. You told me we don't make deals with demons, she says, on a roll. You said those weren't for us. You said mom wouldn't want us to. This whole time, you made your own deal and you're preaching about lying. She scoffs. Sophie had her own plans, but she didn't lie to me. Not like you. He doesn't know what to say. He doesn't ask how she knows. Either Stolis or Sophie could have given him up. Or maybe it was the Turner intuition. It doesn't matter. The nightmare is still real regardless. I was protecting me, she cuts him off. I don't know if you saw what I did to that car, but I don't need protecting. He feels the old rage flare up before he can stop it. Big girl all of a sudden? Congratulations! You think because you have power they can't touch you? Her mom was the strongest of any of us, and they still took her. You can't solve every problem by blowing it up. You have to use your head. You literally blew up a building, she shouts back. And it wasn't just Sophie who died. I had another friend, Sylvie. I saw her in the audience. I don't even know if she's alive. Um never know. Do you know what that feels like? He feels a cold stab in his gut. He had known there would be chaos, collateral. He had counted on it as a last resort. But collateral damage can only be brushed aside if there aren't any names or faces. Cat has both. He might have killed a kid. I did everything I could to avoid that. Everything except listen to me. That's a two-way street, young lady. I asked you to stay in the apartment that night. We could have been in and out without all of this. Oh, so it's my fault? She raises her voice as a light tremor passes through the house. You didn't ask. You told me to shut up and do as I'm told. You expect me to follow your big plan, but you don't even trust me enough to let me know what the plan is. I don't know what you want from me, Keddo. I'm doing my best. She looks for a moment like she's about to start laughing from frustration. It's such an alien, adult expression coming from someone who's almost twelve that it spooks him. She squeezes her fists for a moment before the fight drains out of her. I am too, she says. I'm trying so hard, and it doesn't matter to you. I had a plan. We were gonna be safe. You wouldn't have to run anymore. I could have a real life. But you did what you always do. You don't listen to me. You get scared and you destroy something. It's what you do. It's what you're good at. Well shit. Cat, he says gently. If you ever become a parent, you're going to learn that sometimes there is no right answer. No solution where anyone wins or gets what they want. But your job in that moment is to make sure your kid lives long enough to hate you, because at least they're alive. I don't need you to forgive me for what happened, but I do need you to understand. I don't hate you. And I don't forgive you. I know. You won't even apologize, she says as she stands from the table. I finally made a choice for myself. And you took it away. And you won't apologize. I just. Cat, I'm he wants to finish, but he's alone in the kitchen. The third step groans as she walks back upstairs. He knocks on her door just before noon. She's been lying face down on Kelly's bed, rereading the same page of her book that she's been reading for the last few minutes. Outside, the wind is howling as it passes through the branches of a maple tree near the window. She doesn't answer him, but after a minute he slowly turns the door handle and comes in anyway. Figures. Can I sit? She doesn't look at him, but nods after a moment. She assumes he'll grab a seat at the desk nearby, but instead he leans against the bedroom wall and slides down to sit on the wood floor. Being back here is a trip, he says after a while. I've had so many fights in this house. Fights with my own dad, with my sisters, with my little brother Jim. Our family tree is rooted in Scotland, so some would say that comes with the territory. She's not sure if he's telling a joke. He might not be sure either. She doesn't laugh. My dad was an asshole, he says, catching her attention with the profanity. Still is, I'm sure. He had a way of making me feel so small. He'd force us to depend on him, then resented our dependence. For years I begged him to just listen. But he steamrolled me at every turn. It only got worse when it became just the two of us. She keeps her eyes glued to the page, the words printed there having lost all meaning. You can spend years telling yourself you'll never do that to your own kid. That you'll be better. And then you wake up one day and see that you've become the same asshole your father was. You hear his voice when you're angry, see his eyes when you look in the mirror. And you can't look at them the same way again. He pauses for a moment. I'm sorry, Kat. I really am about all of it. You were trying to get me to listen, and I couldn't hear you. Your right to be angry with me. She knows this already, but she finally looks at him. He's sitting there, watching her. In his lap is a small, flat package crudely covered in silver wrapping paper. Why did you do it? she asks. Why make a deal? Why lie to me? He avoids her eyes, looking at the posters that adorn the walls instead. I had just lost the most important person in my life, he says finally. I wasn't ready to let go, and I needed help. And I had no one I could go to. It wasn't until years after that I realized I'd fucked up, and by then it was too late. I promised myself I'd never fulfill it, so it didn't really matter. But whenever I look at you, I'm reminded of that choice, and I'm ashamed. She feels her face change, and he hurries to finish. Of myself. Not you. Never you. I wanted to be a good dad to you. Wanted your mom to be proud of me. I've screwed it all up. Yeah. She says, exhausted. She's past the point of being willing or able to comfort him. Maybe. I don't know. He laughs in spite of himself. You sound like your mom. I'm not her. There's a pit in her stomach. She sounds like she was perfect. I'm not. I don't know what to do. I'm angry all the time. And I'm tired of feeling scared. I'm like you, I think. I don't want to be, but I am. How do you keep doing this? He doesn't ask for clarification, but looks at her. I don't know, Kid Kat. I think about what things were like before all this. Part of me has to believe that we can find something like that again. And I think holding on to that keeps me going. She shakes her head. What if this is all I can remember? I might be able to help with that, he says, leaning forward and placing the small present on the bed in front of her. Merry Christmas, Kit Kat. She hesitates a moment, then reaches out and takes the gift, slowly tearing at the wrapping paper. Inside there's a small, framed photograph, the kind taken by a disposable camera and developed in a grocery store pharmacy. In it she sees her father. Despite this photo being taken only a few years ago, he looks so much younger. There's less gray in his hair, and the dark circles under his eyes are missing. The smile on his face is brilliant, like a man who won the lottery and doesn't quite know what to do with himself. Next to him, her head nestled into the place between his collar and his cleanly shaven jaw, is Alicia. Her smile is warm, eyes showing such happiness, such contentment that it's hard to imagine that anything could ever disturb it. Between the two of them, a perfect mix of both, lies a sleeping baby whose head is only just starting to become crowned with curls. Kat's eyes begin to sting, but she says nothing. You were only a few months old when we took this, she hears him say. Your mom insisted I try and bury the hatchet with your grandfather. I never thought he'd hang it, but it wasn't like him to throw anything away either. I had a feeling it would be in the attic along with everything else he never talked about. Glad I was right. She looks up at him. I don't know how we move forward, he says. But I can give you this at least. She pauses, running her fingers lightly over the glass before setting the picture down. She sniffles and then gets off the bed and sits down in front of her father. I think I know, she says softly. What do you shut up, she cuts in. Just please, please shut up. Close your eyes. He cocks an eyebrow, but does as she says. Now hold out your hands, right up near your heart. No, like you're holding a ball. That's it. He's confused, she can tell, but he's trying. Now think of Mom. Remember everything you can about her. Her laugh, how her shampoo smelled, how you met. Anything. Anything that's really important. Cat, I Dad, please. He's uncomfortable now. She can see the conflict on his face, but after a moment he complies. Take all of that. Everything you remember. Everything you miss. All the feelings. Take all of it and imagine it's a ball of light floating in your hands. Feel it from deep inside like you do when you channel, and Oh. She stops, because floating in between her father's cupped hands is a small, brilliant ball of soft pink light. He opens his eyes, as surprised as she is to see himself doing magic without a tool. You keep trying to hold on to Mom, she whispers. But you're holding too tight. There's there's no room for her to just be and it hurts you. She feels tears running down her face. She sees the same on his. She's never seen her father cry, and a part of her that she can't name is terrified. But she doesn't stop. You can hold her gently, she says finally. How do you know how to do this? He whispers. Aunt Shanice showed me. He nods, unable to speak. They sit in silence for a while, and then, slowly, Kat reaches out to cup her hands around the floating ball. She closes her eyes, and in a moment they both feel warmth as the ball glows that much brighter. Father and daughter sit there for what seems like hours, each holding the memory of a woman who meant the world to them, whose absence has hung between them like a missing tooth. The warmth flows into that hollow space that grief has carved and fills it not with a command or a lamentation, but with a simple prayer. Thank you for having been here. We love you. We hold you. Slowly, without words, they bring the spell to a close as the light fades, then disappears. I thank you, Kit Kat, Jason says quietly as the tears on his face begin to dry. For the first time in a long time, she doesn't feel lonely in his presence. She doesn't forgive him, but love and forgiveness are far from the same thing. We need to talk about tomorrow, he says. They'll be coming for us, and we're gonna have to fight. I know you don't trust me right now. I can't blame you. But if we're gonna make it through this, we'll have to do it together. She meets his eye and her jaw is set. What do I need to do? As Christmas comes to a close, Kat and Jason prepare for the fight of their lives. Blood will be spilled, dear travelers. Make no mistake. But whether that blood belongs to family or foe remains to be seen. Come back in two weeks as the season one finale begins. Hopefully, we all meet again on the other side. This episode was written, performed, produced, and mixed by Evan Okuna. Our intro music is by Anna Dagger and Hannah Ekstrom. Outro music is by Backdrop. You can find more at Signedandbloodcast.com. If you liked what you heard, follow and subscribe on your favorite podcast platform. It makes a huge difference for an indie show like this. Want to feed a little energy back into the magic that keeps Signed and Blood alive? Leave a rating or review. For those who wish to go further, there's a Buy Me a Coffee link in the show notes. Every donation helps, regardless of size, and I'll send you blessings through my Chaos Magic practice during our monthly ritual of thanks. If you'd like to hear what that sounds like, you're in luck. This month's ritual will begin in just a moment. Thank you for listening. Until next time, keep your past behind you, your grief held gently, and your intentions signed in blood. I open this circle in the name of the keeper of stories. If you're still here, fellow travelers, thank you. This ritual is for those who help keep this show alive. This show is a ritual offering, joyfully created and freely given in the grand tradition of the storytellers who have come before us. I know that there are plenty of things vying for your attention and support, and by feeding a portion of that here, you share in the creation of this story. As thanks, I give you my intention, attention, and time. Tonight, we have a new name to enter in the record of this magic working. Making Mama proud, this is for you. You gave freely without expectation of reward at a moment when this work needed it. You helped to add another strand to the grand web of stories that connects us all. For these things and more, you have my sincerest thanks. I cannot say what form this thanks will take. That part of the story is unwritten. But I will say this. May your Tattoo Studio, Underground Art Inc., prosper as a refuge for the marginalized and terrorized. May your clients carry the beauty of your artist's work far beyond the borders of Memphis, Tennessee, that the world may become a brighter and more colorful place. May the power of your unique voice cut through the silence of complicity and bring about lasting change for the good of all. May the love and kindness you broadcast into the world return to you a hundredfold, and may your community become that much stronger for it. And so it is and so it shall be. And so it is and so it shall be. And so it is and so it shall be. Thank you for listening, dear travelers. May the road ahead deliver you safely until we meet again.