Free SHUDDERVILLE TWO by Mia Zabrisky Page B

“There are two sets of stairs. Front and back. You can use the back stairs, and your room is at the top. It’s like having your own private entry.”
    Something caught my eye. Beneath her long-sleeve blouse, I saw bruises on her wrists and a raw, red scratch at the base of her throat. I wondered if she had a boyfriend with a temper. Or maybe it was her dim-witted son? Or maybe those were self-inflicted wounds? It takes all kinds, as Mama used to say.
    “You and Andy can share the upstairs bathroom,” she continued. “Olive and I will use the downstairs john. Oh, and by the way, the attic is strictly off-limits.”
    “Really? Why is that?”
    “I keep my husband’s belongings up there, and I don’t want anything disturbed. I hope you’ll respect that.”
    “Sure. Of course.”
    “I had to get rid of the last boarder because he… he didn’t respect my wishes. You can’t go up there. No matter what. Do you understand?”
    I nodded.
    The muscles in her face tightened, and I could see that something was wrong.
    “Your house, your rules,” I said.
    “Breakfast is at seven,” she told me. “Dinner’s at six. You’re on your own with lunch. We go to bed around nine o’clock.”
    “Well, okay. Sounds fine to me.”
    But she wasn’t finished yet about the attic. She bit her lower lip and said, “Sometimes a squirrel gets into the attic and makes a racket. But please don’t catch it yourself. If that happens, just tell me and I’ll take care of it. Okay?”
    “Okay,” I said. But whenever I’m told not to do something, it quickly becomes the sole focus of my desire. Once the widow had forbidden me to go up into the attic, well then… you knew exactly where I was going that night.
    “Follow me, won’t you?” she said with awkward formality.
    I followed her up the back stairs to the second floor. The rental room was large and square and plain. There was an old-fashioned revolving fan that blew the muggy air from one corner of the room to another. It was perfect. I needed a place to crash and think about my future. I was exhausted from my travels. I wanted to sit back for a while and see what transpired.
    “I change the sheets and towels once a week,” the widow explained. She smelled like the smoke of a snuffed candle. She had streaks of gray running through her shoulder-length dark hair, and that made me wonder how old she was. 30? 40? She seemed to have been flattened by the world; her voice was flat and her expression was blank, and it pained me to look at someone so beaten down, but I just knew there had to be life inside her somewhere, heat and fire.
    I moved a little closer and the floor made a loud creak.
    “I can fix that in a jiffy,” I told her. “All you need’s a little linseed oil.”
    “Well, thank you. That’s very kind of you.”
    “And what do you do, Mrs. Kincaid?”
    “Please. Call me Delilah.”
    “Call me Clarence.”
    She smiled. “I teach math to fifth graders, but during the summer we rent out a room.”
    “You’re way too pretty to be a math teacher,” I said, and she blushed. She came to life. Her eyes sparkled. It was a pleasure to have such a positive effect on her.
    “Over here’s your bureau, and this is your closet…” She showed me things that were obvious, and I could tell she wanted to linger. I could sense she wasn’t used to adult company, but that she secretly craved it. She was too busy teaching fifth-graders and raising her kids to appreciate her own femaleness. I sure appreciated it, though.
    *
    I brought my duffel bag in from the car, took the back stairs and opened the creaking door of my room. I crossed the uneven floorboards that announced my presence every step of the way. Damn. You couldn’t get away with much inside this creepy old house. I’d have to fix that. The furniture was plain but adequate. There were books stacked on the bedside table, along with a tattered white teddy bear with a pink ribbon around its neck. I picked up a book