Context and Background: “Echoes of the Dead” is a dramatized retelling of the Narragansett tribe’s myth surrounding the spirit, Chepi, who could be invoked by medicine people to avenge wrongdoings. In this adaptation, the story explores a mother’s grief and the heavy cost of summoning a spirit whose powers come with dangerous consequences. While rooted in Native American mythology, the tale delves into universal themes of loss, revenge, and the emotional toll of holding on to grief. In this narrative, Chepi is portrayed not just as an avenger but as a force that thrives on unresolved sorrow, illustrating the peril of seeking vengeance at the expense of inner peace. This retelling expands on the tension between Wutokun’s pain and the spiritual forces she recklessly summons, highlighting the transformative power of grief and the price one pays for meddling with the dead.
Summary: In the wake of her son’s brutal murder, Wutokun, a Narragansett medicine woman, is consumed by grief and anger. Desperate for justice, she invokes the spirit of the dead, Chepi, to avenge him. But Chepi is a dangerous force, feeding on the living’s pain and grief. When the revenge is fulfilled, Wutokun realizes too late that the price is far greater than she anticipated. The spirit lingers, binding itself to her, as her sorrow and desire for vengeance slowly erode her very soul. Now, she must confront the realization that some wounds cannot be healed, and her quest for revenge has become her own undoing.
Smoke curled into the night air, twisting like a serpent into the black sky, disappearing into the stars. Wutokun’s fingers clenched the bloodstained pouch of herbs so tightly that her knuckles turned bone white. She should not have come here—not alone, not like this. The cold wind bit at her face, chilling her to the marrow, but the fire inside her chest roared hotter than any flame she could summon.
Her son was dead. And his killers still walked free.
The clearing was thick with the smell of damp earth and the sharp tang of freshly snapped pine needles. Wutokun stood at the center of it all, her shadow long and distorted in the pale light of the rising moon. Around her, the ancient trees loomed like silent witnesses, their gnarled branches heavy with the weight of countless generations. Somewhere, in the darkest part of the forest, she could feel it—a presence, waiting. Hungry.
Her lips moved in a chant, her voice low and cracked. “Chepi, hear me. Chepi, come. I summon you across the veil.”
The night itself seemed to hold its breath.
For a moment, nothing but the distant rustle of leaves answered her call. The mist coiled around her ankles, growing thicker, pressing closer as if the forest itself was closing in. She knew what she was doing was forbidden. To invoke Chepi was to meddle with death itself, to disturb the spirits that belonged to the other side. But Wutokun no longer cared. She had lost too much, and what she had left was slipping away with every beat of her heart.
The air shifted. A sudden chill crawled up her spine, and then there it was—the faintest whisper of movement, like wind through reeds, but darker, deeper. It was the sound of something that did not belong in this world.
A voice, cold and distant, echoed in her mind. “You call for blood.”
Her throat tightened. She swallowed, feeling the burn of bile rise. “I call for justice.”
Silence followed. The mist thickened, swirling upward until it began to take shape before her—a figure, translucent, barely there, but its presence was undeniable. Chepi. The spirit of the dead. Its face, if it could be called a face, was nothing more than a hollow outline, its features obscured by the shifting fog. But Wutokun could feel its gaze on her, penetrating, all-knowing.
“Justice?” the voice hissed, dragging the word out as if tasting it. “Or vengeance?”
Wutokun’s hands trembled, and she closed her eyes briefly, fighting back the tears that burned her vision. “They killed him,” she whispered. “My son. He was only a boy.”
The spirit remained still, a cold and unyielding presence. “And what will you give me in return for this… justice?”
Wutokun hesitated. She had known there would be a cost. There always was. But no price could outweigh her pain, her loss. The grief was a weight that threatened to crush her, a gnawing emptiness that hollowed out her chest and left her gasping for air. “Take what you will,” she said, her voice hardening. “I have nothing left to lose.”
Chepi moved closer, its form flickering like a dying flame. “Be sure of that, pawwaw. Once I cross, there is no return. I take, and I do not give back. You will lose more than you know.”
The wind howled through the trees, and Wutokun felt it in her bones, the warning. But she was past the point of heeding warnings. She nodded, her jaw clenched tight. “Do it.”
The spirit’s form shifted, growing darker, more solid. And then, with a rush of cold air, it vanished into the night, leaving Wutokun alone in the clearing, her breath coming fast and shallow. For a moment, everything was still.
Then came the scream.
It tore through the forest, high-pitched and ragged, filled with the kind of terror that only comes from knowing death is upon you. Wutokun flinched, her heart hammering in her chest, but she forced herself to remain where she was. She had asked for this. She had summoned Chepi to do what she could not. The warriors who had killed her son were about to feel the weight of their sins.
Another scream. This one cut off abruptly, as if the air had been stolen from the lungs.
Her nails dug into her palms. She had imagined this moment so many times, dreamed of it in the nights when sleep refused to come. She had thought it would bring her peace, that it would ease the relentless ache in her chest. But now, as the sounds of death echoed through the forest, she felt no relief. Only emptiness.
“It is done.”
Chepi’s voice whispered in her ear, soft as a dying breath. Wutokun turned, and there the spirit stood again, silent and cold. Its form was darker now, the mist surrounding it thick and clinging. She could feel the power radiating from it, a dark, ancient force that pressed down on her like a heavy weight.
She should have felt triumphant. Instead, she felt sick.
Wutokun’s lips parted, but no words came. What was there to say? She had gotten what she wanted. The men who had stolen her son’s life had paid with their own. But the ache in her chest hadn’t lessened. It had only deepened, sinking its claws further into her soul.
“You gave me nothing,” Chepi whispered. “But I will take nonetheless.”
Wutokun’s breath hitched. “What do you mean?”
The spirit tilted its head, almost as if amused. “You think vengeance comes without cost? You have lost your son, pawwaw. Now you will lose your soul.”
The ground beneath her seemed to shift. She stumbled back, her heart pounding. “No…”
“Your pain is my sustenance.” The voice was darker now, thicker, reverberating through her skull. “So long as you cling to your grief, I will grow stronger. And you will wither.”
Panic gripped her. This wasn’t what she had bargained for. She had wanted justice—justice for her son, to make his killers pay. But this… this was something darker, something far more insidious.
“I release you,” she said, her voice trembling. “The bond is broken. Leave me.”
Chepi’s laughter was a low, rumbling sound, vibrating through the trees. “You cannot break what has already been forged. You are bound to me now, Wutokun. As I am to you. Until you forget him, until you let go of your grief… I am with you.”
Wutokun’s knees buckled, and she fell to the ground, her hands digging into the cold, wet earth. She had thought she was prepared for this. She had thought the price would be worth it. But now, as the weight of what she had done settled over her, she realized she had been wrong.
So terribly wrong.
The spirit began to fade, its form dissolving into the mist once more, but its presence lingered, a cold shadow pressing against her heart. Wutokun stared after it, her breath coming in shallow gasps, her mind spinning. The screams of the dead still echoed in her ears, but they felt distant now, drowned out by the growing sense of dread curling inside her chest.
She had lost her son.
And now she was losing herself.
The night swallowed her whole, the darkness deeper than it had ever been before. And in that silence, she understood—Chepi had not taken her soul.
She had given it willingly.
