The widow and the haunted house

I sat in my white filthy kitchen, drinking steaming black coffee, laced with brandy. Outside the wind blew, bare tree branches, against the house. Rain drizzled. Wet leaves blanked the earth, a solemn farewell to summer.

Tic toc tic toc an ancient cuckoo clock, counted off the seconds, every hour it choked out a poor excuse for a bird song. I drank more brandy, the amber liquid burning my throat. Drop by drop, I poured the foul brown liquid into my mouth. Until months worth of emtry brown bottles littered the floor, silent testimony to a broken heart. Damp cold air settled over the kitchen, feeding mildew in the corners. I should turn on the gas stove, instead of watching my hands turn blue. I should take a bath or eat, but instead I sit and drink.

I sigh, remembering a cheap pine coffin, lowered into a deep muddy hole, under a steel grey sky. Wicked wet wind whipped rain into eyes, noses and under coats. A drenched priest. A group of strangers dressed in black. My husband dead of a heart attack. He left me a widow at 32.

After his death, bankrupt, I moved here. An old 2 story grayish white farmhouse, that my sister owned, but could not rent or sell. Rural was an understatement, it was so far out in the boonies, there was no cell phone access. The only neighbor a Baptist church, with a dilapidated cemetery. No self respecting ghost rested in peace, under the decayed tombstones and overgrown rosebushes. No one would hear you scream. Heck no one could find the place.

Rain drops froze on the windows. A new moon cast shades of darkness. My hands shaking, I lit a long wooden match. I opened the stove's ivory porcelain door, turned on the gas and lit the pilot. Blue flames puffed, ran along the metal rails. I left the stove door open.

A dry man sat at my table. He was clean cut and wore a flannel shirt. He poured himself a brandy. He inhaled the potent fumes, but did not drink. He disappeared I rubbed my eyes. It must be hypothermia or something. I shut my eyes and looked again. He was gone.

The next morning, fog hung thick in the air. Raindrops froze on the windows. The kitchen smelt of damp air, stale coffee and brandy. I lit the stove. Emtry brown bottles littered the floor. I picked them up lost count at 22, I filled a couple of garbage bags. On the table were 2 cups. Hun? I only drank from one. Maybe there was a stranger in the house?

I searched the house, every nook and cranny. All the doors and windows locked. I found undistrubed dust bunnies, dead spiders and dirty windows. No sign of intruder? I returned to the kitchen, 2 cups. Damn, I boiled water and washed the kitchen.

Wisps of fog danced in the weak sunlight, but I could see. I loaded the garbage bags into my rusted winter beater and drove to the dump.

Then I drove to Groveville. Dirt roads were surrounded by thick forest and an occasional farm. In town there was a 1970s style elementary school, a library, a post office and a cop shop. The commerical district, a row of red brick buildings, with shattered windows and missing doors. The town's streets, were littered with pot holes like landmines.

A dollar general was open for business. A rusted bicycle parked in the lot. I brought some extremely overpriced groceries, from an ance faced school girl. Silently she rang up my order. Shoved my stuff into bags and slumped against the wall.

I drove home, the roads turning to mud. Would the sun ever make an appearance? I arrived at the house and unlocked the door. On my kitchen table set 4 glasses, what the? I sniffed, each glass held brandy. I set my bags on the floor. Again I searched the house, nothing out of place?

I called a locksmith on a black rotary phone and begged for new locks. The secretary set up an appointment. Hands shaking I hung up the phone.

On the table lay a yellowish crumpled newspaper. It smelt of wood smoke and was dated July 4th 1974. I flipped thru it. The obituaries, circled in pink, covered 2 pages. I counted 169 deaths. The cause eating wild death cap mushrooms served in a casserole. Hands trembling, l lit the stove. I grabbed the newspaper and shoved it into the stove. Mocking me it did not burn.

I sprinted to my car. I jammed the key into the lock, turned the key, nothing. Oh please please start, you damn car. No luck, it refused to start.

I ran into the house. I telephoned the operator. She connected me to a taxi service. No luck again, no taxi service available. I slammed the phone receiver and starred at the intact newspaper, laid on the table, next to 4 shot glasses. I drank all 4 shots.

"Enough ok joke's over. Leave me alone." Words slurred. Tic toc tic toc, blue flames danced in the stove. "What do you want? Who's playing games?" Silence no answer. Damn, I could call the cops, but what would I say? Groveville to far away to walk.

Knock knock, I froze listening. Knock knock, the noise came from inside the house. Knock knock, I grabbed a rolling pin. Knock knock, it came from the parlor. I took a deep breath, prepared to beat the crap out of the intruder. I crept thru the dining room, glanced into the parlor emtry. Knock knock oh crap where was it coming from? I looked out the window, no one there. The doorknob locked. Knock knock, came from an antique mirror. A hand white and strong grabbed my wrist. It pulled me into the mirror. Like a cat teasing a rat, the hand toyed with me. The hand pulled me inch by inch into the mirror, sucking the heat from my body. "AWWWWWWW!"

Several days later, my sister searched the parlor. I watched her from inside the mirror. She checked the locked door and the windows. Over and over again she frantically entered and exited the parlor. Tears fell from her eyes, she clutched her coat shaking. I tapped the mirror. I screamed, she did not respond.

Shadows lengthen, darkness grew, I was trapped in the mirror. "AWWWWWWW!"