The last time I ever saw her, she was wrapped in a torn leather jacket, shivering as the ambulance took her. I didn’t know it was the last time.
They dredged our crumpled Dodge from the dark riverbed and found my powder white body inside.
I hope she loves again.
The doorbell rang at 4.38am. The innocuous “ding-dong” took on a menacing timbre. I was instantly afraid. Nothing good rings at 4.38am.
It rang again. Slowly approaching the door, I made out the dark figure of a man behind the glass. It’s 5.47am now. He’s still there.
I’ll never leave.
I build a cabin.
Spiders creep everywhere. I kill some. Shut them out.
49 days living and working in my secluded wooden prison. Day 50, forget to close a window before nightfall. The spiders come in. I thought they wanted the cabin. Silk-bound I realize my error; they want me.
A curse befell the town. Children started disappearing. The town panicked. Was the haggard woman on the hill a witch? The mayor led the townsfolk to her shack and hammered the door down. She was already dead. Bludgeoned by the small fists of a hundred children who were never found.
We stayed in a haunted house. Held hands and couldn’t let go. Flinched at noises, winced and huddled under covers. Finally a ghost appeared, we screamed, he apologized for frightening us and as a goodwill gesture spent an hour doing a stand up comedy routine about being dead and Thatcher.