|
“Someone died in this house.”
Rachel stared at the old woman on her doorstep. “Sorry?” “Someone died here,” the old woman said. She looked up at the house and then backed away, as if afraid to be close to it for too long. “Wait a second...” The old woman shook her head and turned to leave. She hobbled down to the road at the end of the new development and went towards an old stone cottage at the entrance to the park. *** “How was the move?” Rachel’s husband said over the phone later that evening. “Fine, no dramas.” “Sorry again I couldn’t be there.” “I know, it’s okay.” “What do you make of the place?” “Oh, it’s great. A totally blank canvas.” She told him about her plans for the various rooms, sparing no details. He listened patiently, though she could tell he wasn’t really interested. She wrapped it up and was about to say goodbye when she remembered the old woman. “Oh, I had a visitor today.” She told him what the old woman had said. Instead of the laugh she expected, there was silence on the other end of the line. “David?” “Sorry, I just saw something on the TV.” “Did you hear what I said?” “Yeah.” “It can’t be true, can it?” “Of course not.” *** The old woman was back the next morning. Rachel leant against the doorframe. “I told my husband what you said yesterday. He said it’s impossible. This is a new build. No one lived here before us.” The old woman shook her head. “Another woman lived here.” “I think you’re confused.” “I’m not confused, dear. I saw her. And the man who used to visit.” “Okay,” Rachel said gently. She started to close the door. “I’d better get back to unpacking, so…” “Wait,” the old woman said, thrusting her face forward. “I saw him one night. The man. He carried something heavy into the park and then came back empty handed. I never saw him or the woman again. Don’t you see? She’s in the park somewhere. Dead.” “I’m closing the door now,” Rachel said, struggling to control her voice. “Don’t come here again.” “You’re about five months along, aren’t you?” the old woman asked just as the door closed. Rachel leant back against the wall, her left hand resting on her belly. She waited for her breathing to return to normal, then straightened up and looked through the peephole. The old woman was still there, moving her lips and counting on her fingers. *** “Don’t let her bother you,” David said, the sound of the TV in his hotel room filtering down the line. “She’s crazy.” “I know, but… look, when are you going to be back, David? I don’t like being here alone.” “I’ll be back tomorrow evening, promise. Just try and forget about it, alright? Stress isn’t good for either of you.” “I know.” “Why don’t you go down to town tomorrow? Have a fancy lunch or something, treat yourself.” She smiled. “It’s not the worst idea you’ve ever had.” *** Rachel glanced at the old cottage on her way out to the car the next morning. The yellow curtains in the upper window twitched closed. She shivered, almost feeling the old woman’s mad eyes on her. She got in the car and drove past the empty, half-finished houses of the new development. SOLD signs stood proudly in a few front lawns, but there were no other people yet. Just her and the old woman. She felt better once she got to town. She ate at a bougie French bistro, and then wandered the high-street. It was lined with quirky, independent shops, so unlike the joyless procession of chain-stores in her hometown. She came to a shop selling specialist wines and spirits and went in. “Help you with anything, miss?” the owner said, looking up from his newspaper. “Yes, I’m looking for a Deanston.” “Very good, we have several here.” “Do you have the twenty-five-year-old? It’s my husband’s favourite. I understand it’s quite hard to find.” The owner’s eyes lit up. “One moment, miss.” He disappeared into a back room and returned a few minutes later with a box. “You’re in luck,” he said, placing the box on the counter and smiling. “A young woman ordered this for her fiancée a couple of months ago and never came to collect it. I was going to hold on to it for her, but, she’s had enough time, hasn’t she?” Rachel forced a smile, trying to ignore the queasy sensation gripping her stomach. “What a coincidence,” she said. *** The town was ruined for her after that. She stared straight ahead on the drive home, hands tight on the wheel, struggling to cordon off the thoughts that threatened to overwhelm her mind. It was the old woman’s madness rubbing off on her. That was all. An old woman’s madness and the general brain-fog of pregnancy. It was stupid. She turned into the development and cruised slowly down the lifeless streets. She turned left into her road and noticed with a start that David’s silver car was parked in the driveway. Then she noticed David himself walking up from the direction of the old cottage. “How was town?” he said, once she was out of the car. “Good,” she said, struggling to compose herself. “You’re back early.” “Yes. I managed to cancel some meetings and get away.” “Where have you just come from?” “The park. Have you seen it yet? It’s lovely.” He reached down and put a hand on her belly. “I think this kid is going to have a lot of fun there.” She smiled thinly. “Come on. Let’s get inside.” She followed him to the front door, her limbs feeling limp. While he fiddled with the key, she looked up at the yellow curtains in the old cottage. This time they didn’t move. Something told her they would never move again. © 2025 Gavin Kent About the author: Gavin Kent is a writer of mystery fiction. He was born in the UK, but currently lives in South Korea.
0 Comments
3 AM. The trailer is dark. Where are her pills? I know she’s still prescribed the Oxy. She’s moved her stash from the bathroom. Go back to the kitchen. Maybe they’re in the fridge. I know she’s kept pills there before, right beside the butter.
Grandma’s had cancer for ten years. I grew up with her. Started ripping her off a year ago. She caught and beat me bloody with a bat. Said she wouldn’t watch it happen again, like she’d watched her daughter become someone else. Kicked me out. Mom? She walked down the wrong alley looking for the wrong guy to fuck for a top-up of skag. They found her newly dead, slumped against a Dumpster with her throat slashed and one eye dangling free of its socket like a baby knocked from a stroller. But really she’d been dead for years. A plastic cup I knock over bounces on dirty lino. I cower like a stricken cat, feel my eyes bulging. Strain my ears. The old trailer whines if a mouse drops a turd in the closet, but I hear nothing. Heavy sleeper, Grandma. Check the pantry. Next to the beans. No. Where is that fucking bottle Jesus fucking Oxy Christ. I know why Mom walked down her last alley, know the willingness to do whatever I’m told to possess my sweet Oxy. Every day I circle our podunk nothing town delivering for the man, cursing the rich kids who buy the pills with money instead of their lives. The circle is starting the dive into a spiral. Goddammit. It’s nowhere. No beautiful glossy white bottle. The old whore is off the pills. They know she’s good as dead. Or she swallowed them all herself. Greedy bitch. Some days I hand out fifteen pills on foot for payment. Last night, after I’d crisscrossed the town twice, my dealer held the bag with my one pill high, low, high again. I followed like a dog. He said, “On your knees.” I fell. He told me to beg. I sniveled. Didn’t see him walk away. He’d already dropped the pill—I wept with joy after scraping it up off the dirty street—I would shave down and quarter to make last. But I can’t. I can’t make the pill last anymore. I woke up thinking, I’m his. Entirely. What he makes me do will only get worse. Then I remembered the woman who gave me a roof. Grandma was still sick. But the pills are nowhere. My hands don’t listen to me. I’m weak, like a dying dog. When did I eat last? I feel my heartbeat, feel the tears reminding me my life isn’t mine anymore. “Reggie,” she says from the darkness. Her soft voice is the rumble of old paper. The light kicks on. Grandma in her muumuu, the gun pointed right at me. She’s old as dust. Her skin’s translucent. She’s so close to death but I know I look worse. Something left I can control. One way out. Deliverance. I see it clearly. It’s so fucking Oxy Jesus obvious. She’ll do it. I’ll make her. I grab a glinting knife off the counter and start toward her. Her finger’s already squeezing the trigger. © 2025 Hubble Stark About the author: Originally from Mississippi, Hubble Stark holds an MFA from the University of Montana and writes crime and literary fiction from his home in the Northern Rockies. Shoot him a line at [email protected]. |
Archives
January 2026
Categories |
RSS Feed