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Sullivan, Missouri

  • Writer: Kate Bender
    Kate Bender
  • Sep 26, 2025
  • 1 min read

September 25, 1871

We passed through Sullivan under a sky that wept without rain. Just a dull, steady mist that blurred the world into a painting no longer cared for.


The air in the train has changed—thicker, warmer, scented of iron and candle wax. No one else seems to notice. Even Ma has grown quieter, watching me with eyes that ask questions she won’t let herself voice.


Last night, something scratched at our door. Not knocked. Scratched. Long, slow strokes like bone across wood. When I opened it, the corridor was empty. But on the threshold lay a brass coin etched with two faces—one human, one horned.


I took it.


I keep taking these offerings.


What does that make me?



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