The Old Lady’s Tale
“Come on over, dear. Humor an old woman,” the parched lips seem to audibly tear apart as the old hag waves a bony limb. The creaking of the stained rocking chair on that disheveled porch is sharp.
“Come out of the hot sun. I’ll bring us some lemonade. Come on now. Thaaat’s it. Have a seat right over there,” foul breath dances past those few remaining rotten teeth, past the gnarled pointing finger and toward a small stool.
Several heartbeats later the aged screen door slams against the solid doorjamb.
“Here you are,” she delivers a coldness unlike the deepest winter, “Yessirree! Indeed a hot one!” A multitude of grunts and snaps accompany her descent into the swaying rocker.
“I see you came from the lake. Mud on your shoes and all,” she pauses, hollow eyes scouring head to toe. Falling trance-like, her words drone deeply on.
“Maybe I can help clear things up a bit here. See, the lake can work funny things on ya’. Some of the folk around here even say it’s…” she pauses, glancing over both shoulders, “…haunted.”