Settlin’ Things

A Piedmont Lantern Story

Piedmont had blamed a lot of things over the years.

Bad luck. Sour dispositions. Crops that failed for no reason anyone could name. Men who turned mean overnight. Women who withered like something had been taken from the soil beneath them. Folks said it was just the way of things.

The Fagan twins knew better.

Takota kept the tools.
Hattie Ruth kept the names.

They didn’t call what they did witchcraft, not out loud. That word made people careless, and carelessness ruined everything. What they practiced was older and quieter and far more exacting.

They called it settling things.

Every new moon, they went down to the low place by Terrapin Creek where the water slowed and darkened, where the land held onto what it was given whether it wanted to or not. Takota drew the circle with cornmeal and creek mud, careful as a bookkeeper. Hattie Ruth laid out the objects: a button lost in anger, a rusted nail pulled from a house built on spite, a lock of hair given freely and then regretted.

Tonight, there were more objects than usual.

“That many?” Takota asked softly.

Hattie Ruth nodded. “It’s been a bad stretch.”

They lit the candles. Not many. Just enough.

And then they spoke the names.

Not curses. Never curses. The twins had learned early that curses bounce back if they don’t have somewhere proper to land. These were reckonings. Names spoken alongside what had been done and what had been taken.

A beating disguised as discipline.
A lie that cost a good woman her standing.
Money borrowed and never meant to be returned.
A child sent away “for their own good.”

With each name, Takota buried an object. With each burial, the creek stirred, not rising, not threatening. Just listening.

That was when the flashlight snapped on.

“What in God’s name…”

The beam caught the circle. The candles. The objects half-swallowed by earth.

Pearl Albea dropped the light.

Beulah Mae clutched at her chest. “I knew it.”

They weren’t alone, either. Two others hovered behind them, drawn by years of whispered suspicion that had finally found its shape.

Takota didn’t flinch. She stepped forward, calm as a midwife. “Evenin’.”

Hattie Ruth stayed where she was, voice steady. “You’re standin’ in somethin’ unfinished.”

Pearl swallowed hard. “What… what are y’all doin’?”

“Cleanin’ up,” Takota said.

Beulah Mae shook her head violently. “This is wickedness. This explains everything. The accidents. The misfortunes…”

Hattie Ruth looked at her then, real clear. “No ma’am. This explains why they stopped.”

Silence fell thick as humidity.

Pearl found her voice. “Stopped?”

Takota gestured toward the creek. “Things settle when they’re named.”

“And when they’re not?” Pearl asked.

Hattie Ruth’s mouth curved, sad and knowing. “Then they leak. They rot. They show up sideways in other folks’ lives.”

One of the men behind Pearl went pale. He recognized a button at the edge of the circle. He’d wondered for years where it had gone.

“You can’t…” Beulah Mae started.

“We already did,” Takota said gently. “And we’ll keep doin’ it. Town won’t. Somebody’s got to do it.”

Pearl stared at the circle, the candles burning low but steady. At the way the night felt… quieter. Not safer. Balanced.

Finally, she picked up the flashlight and turned it off.

“Y’all didn’t see this,” she said to the others. “And you ain’t gonna talk about it.”

Beulah Mae opened her mouth.

Pearl cut her a look sharp enough to draw blood. “Some things are best left tended to.”

They left without another word.

When the footsteps faded, Hattie Ruth let out a long breath. “That was close.”

Takota nodded. “Closer than I like.”

They finished the work before dawn, hands dirty, shoulders aching, the circle smoothed away until no sign remained.

By morning, Piedmont would wake to small mercies it couldn’t explain. A man’s temper cooling. A debt repaid. A memory loosening its grip just enough to let someone breathe.

And the town would go right on pretending nothing unusual was happening.

Which was fine.

Witchcraft, after all, only frightens people who think power belongs somewhere else.

The Fagan twins knew better.

About Ol' Big Jim

Jim L. Wright is a storyteller with a lifetime of experiences as colorful as the characters he creates. Born and raised in Piedmont, Alabama, Jim’s connection to the land, history, and people of the region runs deep. His debut novel New Yesterdays is set in his hometown, where he grew up listening to stories of the past—stories that sparked his imagination and curiosity for history. Today, Jim lives in Leeds, Alabama, with his husband Zeek, a tour operator who shares his passion for adventure and discovery. Known affectionately as “Ol’ Big Jim,” he has had a diverse career that includes time as a storekeeper, an embalmer, a hospital orderly, and a medical coder. There are even whispers—unconfirmed, of course—that he once played piano in a house of ill repute. No matter the job, one thing has remained constant: Jim is a teller of tales. His stories—sometimes humorous, sometimes thought-provoking—are often inspired by his unique life experiences. Many of these tales can be found on his popular blog, Ol’ Big Jim, where he continues to share his musings with a loyal readership. Jim’s adventures have taken him far beyond Alabama. For seven years, he lived in Amman, Jordan, the world’s oldest continuously inhabited city. His time there, spent in smoky coffee shops, enjoying a hookah and a cup of tea while scribbling in his ever-present notebook, deeply influenced his worldview and his writing. When Jim isn’t writing, he’s thinking about writing. His stories, whether tall tales from his past or imaginative reimagining is of historical events should read from his past or imaginative reimaginings of historical events, reflect a life lived fully and authentically. With New Yesterdays, Jim brings readers a rich tapestry of history, fantasy, and human connection. Visit his blog at www.olbigjim.com to read more of his stories, or follow him on social media to keep up with his latest musings and projects, one of which is a series that follows Bonita McCauley, an amateur detective who gets into some very sticky situations. His book, New Yesterdays, can be found at Amazon US, Amazon UK, Smashwords, and Barnes and Noble.

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