Blood in the Bluegrass

The summer air hung thick over the rolling hills of Southern Kentucky, the scent of honeysuckle mixing with the distant stench of something rotting. Margaret Ann Givens stood on the porch of her family’s farmhouse, rocking slowly in her mother’s chair.

The same chair her mama used to sit in while snapping beans and humming hymns. But there were no hymns tonight—just the rhythmic creak of wood and the occasional chirp of a lonely cicada.

view of my book cover; Blood in the Bluegrass

Inside, the house was silent, though it hadn't always been. It used to be filled with the heavy footsteps of her husband, Earl, tracking mud through the kitchen. The laughter of her two boys, Samuel and Levi, playing with whittled sticks in the yard. And, of course, her mother’s constant prayers, whispered over her Bible, as if she could cleanse the sins out of this house.

Margaret Ann had grown tired of the noise.

It Started with The Boys

It started with the boys. They had always been wild, just like their father. When Samuel knocked over the oil lamp in the barn, nearly burning the place down, Margaret Ann knew she had to do something. She took them out back, near the old well, told them to kneel, and pressed the shotgun to the base of their skulls, one after the other.

view of mom and the boys kneeling, mom with a shotgun in her hands.

Earl was next. He came home smelling of bourbon and perfume that wasn’t hers. He barely got his boots off before she drove the kitchen knife into his belly, twisting it slow. He looked at her, confused at first, then afraid. He had never been afraid of her before.

mom cleaning her hands, blood splattered on the ground after stabbing her husband.

Her mama was the hardest. The old woman had always been a pillar, strong and stubborn. When she saw the bodies, she didn’t scream. She just looked at Margaret Ann with those weary blue eyes, shook her head, and muttered,

“You got the devil in you, girl.”

Maybe she did.

By the Time the Sheriff Came 'round

By the time the sheriff came ‘round the next morning, the house was quiet. Margaret Ann was still in the rocking chair, hands folded in her lap, her dress stiff with dried blood.