“Damn thing’s slower than molasses in January,” Granddaddy Beauregard muttered, jabbing repeatedly at the ancient TV remote with his tobacco-stained finger. The sultry Mississippi afternoon pressed against the windows of the decaying antebellum mansion like a wet wool blanket.
“Maybe if you didn’t keep it in the freezer, Pop,” said Martha Jean, not looking up from her cross-stitch. The needlework depicted their family tree, though several branches had been deliberately left unfinished.
“The cold keeps the demons out,” Beauregard insisted, his rheumy eyes fixed on the flickering screen. “You know what your mother always said about electronic devices being portals.”
Martha Jean’s lips tightened at the mention of her mother. “Mama said a lot of things before she went to live in the attic.”
From somewhere above their heads came a hollow thumping, as if in response. Neither of them acknowledged it.
“Besides,” Beauregard continued, “ever since that Yankees salesman convinced me to upgrade to the digital box, this remote’s been possessed by the spirit of your great-aunt Cordelia. And you know how she always liked to take her time with everything.”
The remote made a sad clicking sound as Beauregard continued his assault on its buttons. The TV remained stubbornly stuck on a home shopping channel selling commemorative plates featuring famous Confederate generals.
“Pop, Aunt Cordelia’s not dead. She’s in Biloxi running that salt water taffy empire.”
“That’s what she wants you to think,” he said darkly. “Pass me that coat hanger antenna, would you? I need to perform an exorcism.”
Martha Jean sighed and reached for the twisted wire contraption, careful not to disturb the chicken bones and Spanish moss that had been woven into it. As she handed it over, the lights flickered ominously.
“Now look what you did,” Beauregard accused the remote. “Stirring up trouble just like your mama used to.”
Another thump from upstairs, louder this time.
“That’s not Mama,” Martha Jean said quietly. “That’s just the house settling.”
“This whole family’s been settling for generations,” Beauregard replied, wrapping the antenna in a Confederate flag handkerchief. “Now hold my sweet tea while I deal with this technological tomfoolery.”
What followed was a ceremony involving liberal amounts of WD-40, three rounds of “Dixie” hummed backward, and a ritual Beauregard swore he learned from a Cajun swamp witch who’d once sold him a blessed carburetor.
The remote, predictably, remained slow.
As darkness fell and the crickets began their nightly sermon, Martha Jean finally looked up from her needlework to find Beauregard had fallen asleep in his recliner, the remote clutched to his chest like a talisman. The TV now showed nothing but static, though in the white noise she could have sworn she heard her mother’s laugh.
She rose quietly, took the remote from his grasp, and placed it back in the freezer next to the peach cobbler and her mother’s wedding ring. As she closed the door, she smiled slightly at the small digital display she’d installed months ago, the one that made every button press delay by exactly three seconds.
Some family traditions, after all, were worth preserving.