If you leave that stray cat in your house, Martha, you'll be smelling her dead owner till spring, the deputy told me on the porch.
My teeth chattered even after a night huddled by the struggling woodstove. Barnaby had burrowed under my thickest blanket, his purr a small, vibrating comfort. The water in the bucket by the door had a thin skin of ice on it. Without electricity, my well pump was useless. I was down to the last two gallons of bottled water.
I needed supplies. Kerosene for my lanterns, more potable water, and, most crucially, food. My larder was running dangerously low.
The nearest town, with Eldon Peck’s General Store, was a two-mile walk. A long walk.
I bundled myself in every layer I owned: thermal underwear, flannel shirt, two wool sweaters, my heavy canvas coat, thick gloves, and a knitted hat pulled low over my ears. I laced up my sturdy winter boots, the ones with good traction.
The trek was brutal. My lungs burned with the cold air, and the snow, crusty and uneven, made every step a conscious effort. The woods, usually a place of quiet refuge, felt menacing and hostile today.
When I finally reached the edge of town, a cluster of buildings around a frozen pond, I noticed it.
On the telephone pole near the town sign, tacked haphazardly, was a flyer. A picture of my face stared back at me, grainy and distorted. Underneath, bold, black letters screamed a headline.
“DANGER: ELDER ABUSER AND POISONER AT LARGE!”
My stomach lurched. I ripped the flyer down, my fingers shaking. It was a crude, damning piece of work. It claimed I, Martha Gable, was a senile killer, that I had “preyed on my fragile neighbor, Clara Sallow, poisoning her with mind-altering medications to steal her land.” It warned townsfolk to stay away, to report any suspicious activity.
Julian Kross. He wasn’t just cutting off my utilities. He was waging war on my reputation.
As I walked down the main street towards Eldon Peck’s store, I saw more of them. Tacked to the notice board outside the post office. Plastered on the wall of the gas station. Another one taped to the glass of the feed store itself. Each one a fresh stab.
The air in town felt different. Colder, sharper, but not from the weather.
A woman emerging from the bakery saw me, then quickly ducked her head, pulling her child closer. A man loading firewood into his truck paused, watching me with narrowed eyes before turning his back. Whispers followed me like an icy draft.
They believed him. They actually believed Julian.
My face felt hot despite the frigid air. The shame, the injustice, burned through me. This was the quiet, rural community I’d lived in for fifty years, where I’d helped people with their land deeds, their family histories. Now I was a monster.
I pushed open the heavy wooden door to Eldon Peck’s General Store, the bell above jingling forlornly. The warmth inside was a relief, but the stares were worse than the cold.
Eldon, a man whose face was usually red and jovial, stood behind the counter, polishing a jar. He didn’t look up. Not until I reached the counter.
Then he slowly raised his head, his eyes wary. He stared at me like I was a stranger. Or worse, a criminal.
More Stories
+ There are no comments
Add yours