Author’s Note – Chapter 2
Welcome back, friends—I’m so glad you’ve returned for Chapter Two of Eat Up: The Story of Sweet Vera. We’re starting to uncover the layers of Vera’s life, and trust me when I say… a big surprise is coming. The cracks are just beginning to show.We only have a few more (short!) chapters to go. Stick with me—you can do it!
🖤
—Skelly
Northumerland
Chapter 2 — The Secret Beneath the Flour
The Gray family lived in a small cottage nestled in the low, misty mountains of Northumberland. Wallace Turnball was a coal miner. He worked long, bone-crushing hours and often didn’t come home for days. When he did, his body sagged with exhaustion, and black soot clung to every crease of his skin.
Alice, Vera’s mother, was a baker. The best in town. Her breads, biscuits, and pies were a staple in nearly every household. She used flour when she could, potatoes when she had to, and both when she needed to stretch ingredients. Her cheerful smile, rosy cheeks, and silver-streaked black bun made her seem like a fairytale grandmother. But beneath the sweet exterior was a woman with a quiet power, a woman who had learned how to survive in rough times.
Vera adored her mother. She helped bake before and after school, and together they sold warm treats at the market. Their hands worked in rhythm—kneading, mixing, folding—as if it were all a well-rehearsed dance. The work was hard, but it was good. Life wasn’t easy, but it was theirs.
Until the day her father came home before sunset.
That had never happened before.
The light had just begun to disappear behind the hills, and Wallace Turnball stepped into the cottage—his face drawn tight, eyes darting. He gave Alice a look Vera had never seen before and said, “We need to talk. Now.”
They disappeared into the bedroom. The walls of the cottage were paper-thin. Vera didn’t want to listen, but she couldn’t help it.
Her father’s voice trembled. Not with rage—but with fear.
Something had happened in the mines. Something awful. His panic made Vera’s stomach twist.
Her mother’s voice came next—low, steady. Soothing. She calmed him, even as he unraveled. She told him it was time. That they had to act.
Act? Act how?
Vera kept her head down, pretending to clean the kitchen, pretending she couldn’t hear. But when Alice stepped out, her eyes were glossy with tears. She didn’t smile. She didn’t say a word. She simply grabbed a few items, wrapped them in her apron, and gave Vera a soft pat on the shoulder before disappearing out the door.
Wallace spent hours in the washroom. When he emerged—clean, silent, unreadable—he walked right past Vera without a word and followed his wife into the night.
Vera waited.
The moon climbed high. The cottage was filled with silence and shadows. She lit a candle, the tiny flame trembling like her hands. Something was wrong. She could feel it in her bones.
Then—
“VERA!”
Her father’s voice pierced the night.
She jumped up, heart racing, and ran outside. The darkness swallowed her. She spun, searching.
“FATHER?” she called back.
“TO THE BARN. NOW!”
The barn. She froze.
That old, creaking, two-stall barn with the rusted metal roof. She was never allowed in there alone. Her parents had warned her of the broken floorboards, of the deep cellar hidden below, crawling with rats and snakes. She only ever went in with her mother—never without.
But this night was already unlike any other.
Goats bleated nearby—loose, their bells clinking as they wandered. Why would her parents let them roam? What was going on?
As she moved carefully toward the barn, the trees twisted in the moonlight. Shadows danced across the path like specters. Then came the bats—swooping, clawing, shrieking overhead. Vera ducked and shielded her face with her apron, panic setting in.
She ran. She didn’t know where—just away from the flapping wings, the sharp claws, the fear.
She tripped, fell, and rolled through dirt and roots. Her arms were scratched, bleeding. Her heart pounded in her ears.
And then—hands.
Her mother’s hands, gripping her arm tightly.
Alice stood before her, filthy and wild-eyed, pulling her forward without a word. Vera wanted to ask questions, to cry, to scream—but she said nothing.
They reached the barn.
There, at the door, were bags.
Cloth bags.
Stacked. Folded. Stained.
Vera knew the smell.
Blood.
She had worked in the market long enough to know it wasn’t animal blood. Not from a goat. Not from a pig.
It was metallic. Sharp. Human.
She stared at the bags. One bulged oddly. Another sagged. A lock of golden-brown curls peeked from one.
Her stomach turned.
Vera was only nine…
Nine years old.
And from that moment on, the secret of the bags—the cellar—the stew—would become hers too.
Sweet Vera was sweet no more.
SK-
Chapter 3 … To be continued…
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