I stood in the garage, the car keys in one hand, the other pressed my cellphone to my ear.

“The damn thing is so old, it should have a crank on it.” My mom on the other end chuckled.

“Just be thankful. Grandpa loved you, and you know he didn’t have much, that’s about the best he could do for you.” My cheeks flushed with shame.

“Yeah you’re right.” I sighed “I’m gonna be here for a bit. I think I’ll clean it up a little, the dust on this thing is 2 inches thick.

“Alright. Stop by my house on your way home, there’s still some small things of Grandpa’s to go through.”

“Ok. See you in a bit.” I hung up the phone and stuffed it in the pocket of my jeans.

I slid the key into the lock on the driver’s door, it swung open with a loud whine and want seemed to be a threat to fall off its hinges.

I sat in the seat, and slid the key into the ignition and twisted. To my surprise, the engine turned over without the slightest hiccup.

The car purred gently almost drowning out the sound of an unnoticed cassette tape being taken into the cassette player. The tape began to play.

^^^ki ^^^ta ^^^ho ^^^ra

The sound was real quite.

^^ki ^^ta ^^ho ^^ra

It was as if a large group was chanting and slowly moving towards the microphone.

^ki ^ta ^ho ^ra

I focused hard, trying to pickup the words that were being chanted. I cranked the volume.

KI TA HO RA

The crowd shouted through the radio. A mashing of voices chanted over and over.

KI TA HO RA KI TA HO RA

I sat and listed, almost hypnotized by the words.. suddenly a voice began to stand out, a voice that I recognized. One that I had heard for many years.

KI TA HO RA; KI TA HO RA; KI TA HO RA

My grandpa’s voice elevated about the rest. The word’s bounced around in my brain. KI TA HO RA

The background chanting continued, my grandpa’s voiced faded away.

It was replaced by a different voice, one that I hadn’t heard in many years, but one that would forever be burned into my ear drums. My sister. Long dead. She was found murdered and dumped on the side of the highway like trash; she had been only 14. My stomach plummeted as her words barely cut through the chanting.

“Grandpa. Please….” The desperation in her voice was palpable. KI TA HO RA “no..No…NO…NO!” The vomit welled in my throat as her panic cries turned to the sounds of her fighting to breathe. There had been obvious ligature marks around her neck when she was found, the coroner said it was likely a belt.

I threw myself from the car and slid on the floor, retching as I listened to my sister being murdered very likely by my grandpa.

“KI TA HO RA” the words continued. “KI TA HO RA” What the fuck did it mean? “KI TA HO RA” it hit me like a Mack truck. “KI TA HO RA” weren’t the words I was hearing. “KI TA HO RA” It wasn’t 4 words. It was 3. “KI TA HORA” 3 words with a strange inflection on the last syllable of the third word.

“KI TA HORA” “KILL TA HORA” “KILL THE HORA” “KILL THE WHORE-ah” “KILL THE WHORE-ah” “KILL THE WHORE-ah”

In unison the people stopped chanting and fell silent, soft footsteps moved away from the microphone. The silence seemed to stretch on forever; then a loud explosion of cheering and jubilation. A new chant started. My grandpa’s voice at the forefront.

“TA HOR IZ DE” “TA HOR IZ DE” “TA HOR IZ DE” “TA HOR IZ DE”

I tucked my knees into my chest, and fought the urge to vomit. I couldn’t bring myself to move from that spot. The celebration continued.

“TA HOR IZ DE” “TA HOR IZ DE” “TA HOR IZ DE” “TA HOR IZ DE”

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