Howlietzer Publishing

Category: Short Horror Fiction

  • My Wife Was Replaced by a Mimic, and I Couldn’t Be Happier (Pt 3)

    My Wife Was Replaced by a Mimic, and I Couldn’t Be Happier (Pt 3)

    Proverbs 27: 15-16

    15 A quarrelsome wife is like the dripping

    of a leaky roof in a rainstorm;

    16 restraining her is like restraining the wind

    or grasping oil with the hand.

     

    I Was Going to Kill Her, But She Made Me Dinner

    The library wasn’t as helpful as I’d hoped.

    The biggest problem was that I didn’t even know what I was dealing with. A mimic made the most sense—but that was more of a D&D term than a real-world classification. Native American folklore had plenty of stories about shapeshifters—beings that took human form to deceive, seduce, or stalk prey. But nothing with a checklist or a cure.

    Still, I didn’t leave empty-handed.

    Salt and iron seemed to be the most commonly suggested countermeasures. So I went to Home Depot. Where I discovered a new frustration: nothing is just iron anymore. It’s all steel. Alloy this, galvanized that.

    I sighed. Loudly. Repeatedly. In the metal aisle. Like a man on the verge of losing a fight to metallurgy.

    Eventually, I settled for a steel rod—close enough, I hoped—and grabbed a big bag of salt. I wasn’t sure what kind was best. Table salt? Sea salt? Himalayan pink?

    At this point, I was overthinking it.

    I figured if it came down to it, I could bash her in the head and pour salt in the wound. Felt like a backup plan from an exorcism manual written by the Supernatural show writers.

    I sat in the car for a long time when I got home.

    What the hell was I doing? Was it possible—even remotely—that this was Claire? That she hit her head or had some mountain retreat revelation and decided to be a better person?

    It was unlikely. But not impossible.

    Maybe I was just so miserable, so used to the worst version of her, that I couldn’t believe in the best version even if it walked through the door and made me bacon.

    I stepped out of the car, gripping the paper bag like the nervous priest in Amityville, and walked into the house.

    It smelled like pot roast.

    The Thing in the Mirror

    My stomach turned in confusion and hunger. Did I really have to kill her? Maybe she was Claire. Maybe the spa changed her.

    The sound of the shower stopped as I walked into the bedroom. Light spilled out from under the bathroom door. I heard humming—at first garbled and wet, like someone gargling while trying to sing. Then it shifted, slowly, unnervingly, into Claire’s voice.

    Then it changed again. It sounded like me.

    She giggled.

    I opened the door fast, a fistful of salt ready to fly.

    I saw… something. A flash. A shape. Twisted. Jarring. Wrong.

    And then it was gone.

    I fumbled the salt, dropping it. She lunged at me—not to attack, but to hug me.

    “Hubby!” she squealed, jumping into my arms like it was our wedding day.

    I caught her. Reflex.

    She kissed my cheek. “I missed you!”

    “…Yeah,” I mumbled. “I missed you too.”

    And I meant it. I missed this version of Claire—the woman who smiled, who kissed me, who made dinner. I’d never know what twisted her into the person she became.

    Whatever this was, it wasn’t her. But it was doing a hell of a job pretending.

    Dinner was quiet.

    I’m pretty sure she saw the salt scattered on the bedroom floor. And the metal rod sticking out of the bag. And I’m absolutely sure she knew I saw her slip.

    “This is amazing,” I said, digging into a second helping of roast.

    She smiled softly, sipping her wine.

    A Tender Confession

    We didn’t say much after that. I think we both knew there wasn’t anything to say.

    We migrated to the couch after dinner. She curled into my side like Claire used to do—before things got bad. I didn’t pull away.

    Even knowing what she was, I didn’t feel threatened. I felt… weirdly calm. Maybe I was too exhausted from all the fear, too numbed by the surreal acceptance of what I’d seen.

    Somewhere in the back of my mind, a motivational poster from the library whispered, “Serenity is acceptance of things you cannot change.”

    Sure. That, or I’d finally lost it.

    “Mark,” she said, “If I were a monster… would you still love me?”

    I laughed. Nervously. She felt it.

    “Isn’t the question supposed to be, ‘Would you still love me if I were a worm?’”

    She didn’t answer.

    I felt like an ass.

    We were watching The Thing, of all movies. As she snuggled deeper into my chest, I wondered if she’d absorb me by the end credits.

    Her voice lowered. Calm. Measured. Almost… vulnerable.

    “So, hypothetically… let’s say I’m like the creature in this movie. Let’s say I was born in the mountains. I came across a woman who was… awful. So I took her place. Came back to her home and tried to do better.”

    I blinked.

    “Let’s say I’m not her. Let’s say you know I’m not her. But I’m trying. I’m trying not to be an ungrateful bitch.”

    “This is hitting really close to home,” I chuckled.

    “Is it?” she asked.

    Her eyes searched mine. Genuinely curious. Genuinely scared.

    Maybe scared I’d drive a rod into her skull the moment she closed her eyes.

    Two Types of Monsters

    “Well,” I said, stammering, “I mean… all hypothetical, right? Monsters aren’t real.”

    She studied me.

    “Let’s say either of us could kill the other at any moment. Would that really be so different from if I was her?”

    I paused.

    Claire hadn’t been violent. But she had been killing me slowly—draining our bank account, draining my patience, draining me.

    And here was something else, something monstrous, asking for a chance.

    Was this a confession?

    We’d reached a threshold—an agreement, spoken in maybes and what-ifs.

    I took a breath.

    “Hypothetically… if you replaced my wife—if we could both kill each other at any moment—no, I don’t think that would be much different. Claire was terrible. But she wasn’t always. She changed. If you were a monster who replaced her, wouldn’t it make you more likely to kill me?”

    Her eyes dropped. She looked… sad. Maybe it was a trick. A calculated illusion. Or maybe it wasn’t.

    “However,” I continued. “You’ve tried harder in one day than she did in three years. She was killing me slowly. Spending money faster than I could earn. Never helped with anything.

    “If you plan to ‘be good,’ like you said… then no, I wouldn’t kill you. And I wouldn’t divorce you, either. In fact… I might be able to accept you for what you are.”

    She wrapped her very human arms around me. No claws. No tendrils. No teeth behind her eyes. Just soft skin and a faint, sweet scent.

    She nuzzled into my neck.

    “So… you won’t kick me out?”

    I blinked.

    That’s what she’s worried about? We were just talking about killing each other five seconds ago.

    “I won’t kick you out,” I said.

    What else could I say? We both understood. Quietly. Silently. This was our new normal.

    We cuddled on the couch every night till this day.

    my wife was replaced my a mimicmimic horror story

    My story is strange. Unbelievable. Probably unrelatable.

    But if you’ve got a shitty spouse—

    Maybe send them to the Smoky Mountain Resort.

    Worst case?
    They come back the same.

    Best case?
    They don’t come back at all.

    And what shows up instead…
    Might just be an improvement.

     

     

  • My Wife Was Replaced by a Mimic, and I Couldn’t Be Happier (Pt 2)

    My Wife Was Replaced by a Mimic, and I Couldn’t Be Happier (Pt 2)

    Proverbs 27: 15-16

    15 A quarrelsome wife is like the dripping

    of a leaky roof in a rainstorm;

    16 restraining her is like restraining the wind

    or grasping oil with the hand.

    Breakfast, Bacon, and a Monster in My House

    I was wrenched from sleep by the relentless ringing of the doorbell. My head throbbed. Too much Jack.

    Shit.

    I rolled over and fumbled for my phone—1:03 PM. No excuse. I should’ve been up hours ago, but the whiskey and my dread about Claire’s return had done me in.

    The doorbell kept going, but now the cadence had changed. Whoever was on the other side was… playing something. A rhythm.

    It took me a second, but then I recognized it. Claire’s favorite song. I couldn’t remember the name, but the pattern was unmistakable. Tap-tap-tap… pause… tap-tap.

    My skull felt like it was hosting a drumline. I muttered a curse under my breath and dragged myself from bed.

    Who the hell was at my door? Some kid? I was going to kick their ass when I opened the door! Though at this rate, they’d have five minutes to escape while I went blind from the sunlight.

    I staggered to the door, shielding my eyes like a vampire, and shouted, “I’m coming!” The doorbell stopped—Hallelujah! I cracked the door open with a groggy squint.

    “Who is it?” I tried to keep my voice neutral, but irritation seeped through.

    And there she was.

    Claire.

    Sort of.

    She was smiling. Not the sarcastic, dismissive smirk she’d worn the past few years, but a real smile. Soft. Bright. The kind that once made me believe in things like fate.

    “Hi, Hubby,” she said. “Did you miss me?”

    Hubby? Where did that come from?

    I instinctively moved to shut the door but paused. If I didn’t let her in, I knew I’d be dealing with another rendition of her doorbell symphony.

    So, I opened the door wider.

    She’s Not Claire—But She’s Perfect

    She looked just like Claire had before the wedding. Not younger, just… lighter. Her eyes shimmered with warmth I hadn’t seen in ages. That glow reached into my chest and touched something brittle and forgotten.

    It wasn’t Claire, but what the hell was it?

    And it pushed me inside, gently guiding me backward, and closing the door behind us with a quiet click.

    Alarms screamed in my mind. This is not Claire. This is something else. What did it want? What had it done with her? What was it going to do to me?

    But before I could act, it ushered me to the couch and began massaging my shoulders.

    “My poor Hubby,” it crooned. “Did you drink too much last night?”

    I turned to look at it. The concern on its face seemed genuine. I nodded, doing my best to mask the fear prickling my skin. I needed to play along—at least until I figured out what it was.

    “Don’t worry,” it said, gliding toward the kitchen. “I know just the thing for hangovers.”

    I listened to the fridge open, the shuffling of containers, her voice softly humming with indecision.

    I tried standing—bad idea. The room spun, and I collapsed back into the couch with a groan.

    “Don’t move a muscle, Mark,” it called sweetly. “I’m going to take care of you.”

    Like you took care of Claire?

    My mind spiraled. Until something pulled me back.

    Hash Browns, Bacon, and Unsettling Smiles

    The smell.

    Butter. Onion.

    My stomach growled. I looked up and saw her at the stove, a skillet already sizzling. I hadn’t heard her chop anything.

    I watched her like a hawk.

    “No peeking, Hubby,” she said with a playful glance. She pulled potatoes from the cupboard, her movements fluid, practiced.

    I turned away, staring at the wall, trying not to blink.

    Then: bacon.

    My mouth watered. The aroma wrapped around me like a spell. I dared to turn my head toward the kitchen.

    “Stop peeking,” she giggled. “You’ll ruin the surprise. A girl’s got to have her secrets.”

    Her voice was so pleasant… unnervingly pleasant.

    I couldn’t forget what she really was. A Demon. A Skinwalker. Something sinister and out of the ordinary.

    God—was she wearing Claire’s skin?

    A thousand thoughts screamed through me. And then she set the plate down. Bacon, eggs, and hash browns.

    “Go on, Mark. Eat up. You’ll feel better.”

    She ran her fingers through my hair before slipping away to the laundry room.

    Poison? Maybe. Did I care?

    Whatever it was—if it wanted to kill me, wear me, feed off me—I was probably already doomed.

    My stomach gurgled. I hadn’t eaten since the night before.

    I took a bite of bacon.

    Perfect. Chewy, crisp, juicy. Just the way I liked it. My God, I’m about to marry that thing.

    It was delicious. Everything. I shook my head. It was going to happen, right? I was going to die. There was no escaping that thing… No, it didn’t want me to know it wasn’t Claire. It couldn’t show its hand yet. I had a chance, but could I kill whatever it was?

    I glanced back at the laundry room.

    The Things That Mimic Love Too Well

    She was folding clothes.

    Claire always hated how I folded clothes. Said I made it look like they’d been balled up and thrown in the dryer with rocks.

    “Are you feeling better, Hubby?” she called sweetly.

    Hubby. I don’t know if I’ll get used to that. Claire had never called me Hubby in our marriage. It was weird, but in a good way. This monster certainly knew how to lull a man into a false sense of security. Incredibly dangerous. I had to keep my guard up.

    “I… uh… yeah.”

    She smiled.

    “I’m going to iron your work shirts next. They’re a bit wrinkled.”

    “Oh… thanks.” I hesitated. “So… how was your trip?”

    She giggled.

    She giggled. It was nice. Too nice. Must resist.

    “It was amazing, Mark! Thank you so much for sending me—and my friends. It was exactly what I needed.”

    “Right. Good. I’m glad you all… had fun.”

    She turned back to the clothes, humming again.

    I needed to get out. I needed space to think.

    “I think I’ll, um, go to the library. Research. A new project for work. New client. Just trying to stay ahead of things.”

    She walked over and kissed my cheek.

    “I hope it goes well,” she said softly. “I’m making a nice dinner tonight, so no snacking while you’re out.”

    I nearly screamed.

    She kissed me. It kissed me. It got right up to me and kissed me.

    My skin tingled. Pheromones! Yeah. Whatever this thing was, it was working my senses very… very well.

    I gulped. “Yes, Claire, yes, I will not… I will not have any snacks.”

    “Good,” she said, eyes sparkling as she looked me up and down. “Because I’m dessert tonight.”

    I turned quickly, determined not to show my arousal. “Yes, ma’am!” It came out high-pitched. Embarrassingly so.

    God damn it!

    “Hold on,” she said, just as I reached for the doorknob.

    I froze.

    “Where’s my kiss?”

  • My Wife Was Replaced by a Mimic, and I Couldn’t Be Happier (Pt 1)

    My Wife Was Replaced by a Mimic, and I Couldn’t Be Happier (Pt 1)

    (Teaser) Claire came back from the mountains sweeter than ever—cooking my favorite meals, calling me “hubby,” folding the laundry. There’s just one problem.

    I don’t think she’s Claire anymore.

    Proverbs 27: 15-16

    15 A quarrelsome wife is like the dripping

    of a leaky roof in a rainstorm;

    16 restraining her is like restraining the wind

    or grasping oil with the hand.

     

    My Wife Went on a Trip—and What Came Back Wasn’t My Wife

    My wife went on a trip recently with her girlfriends.

    What came back wasn’t my wife.

    It wasn’t even subtle. I don’t know what happened to her up in those mountains, but if I’m being honest… it’s an improvement.

    Claire used to be sweet. When we were dating, she was very attentive—doting, even. After a long day at work, she’d meet me at the door with a smile and a hug that I thought I could live inside forever. I made good money, enough for her to stay home, keep the place tidy, and tend to the little things that made our house feel like a dream.

    So of course, I proposed.

    When the Person You Married Becomes Someone Else

    The wedding was beautiful. Life after the honeymoon started out smoothly. But it didn’t last long.

    Claire started spending every day with her friends—long lunches, shopping trips, and endless spa days. I hardly ever saw her anymore. And when I did, she was either drunk or high.

    She wasn’t a happy drunk.

    She threw tantrums over maxed-out cards and screamed at me when the bank declined her latest spree. Demanded I work more overtime so she could keep buying things we didn’t need.

    “You’re not providing for me like you promised in your wedding vows!”

    I did promise to take care of her. But this… this was getting insane.

    Her latest demand? A deluxe spa retreat for her and five girlfriends. A place up in the Smoky Mountains called Smoky Mountains Resort—mud baths, hot springs, seaweed wraps, the works.

    When I hesitated and suggested that maybe just she should go, or perhaps scale back the five-friend headcount, she slapped me.

    She had never hit me before. I was shocked.

    “You’re a fucking bitch if you can’t pay for me and all my friends to have a decent birthday experience!”

    So I paid.

    I make good money, but I’m not a Jeff Bezos. I’m trying to retire someday. Still, I caved. I always did. “Happy wife, happy life,” right?

    But something in me broke that day.

    A Spa Trip to the Smoky Mountains—and a Breaking Point

    I had tolerated her for too long. I believed in marriage—I really did—but Claire had become someone I didn’t recognize. I made up my mind: I would serve her divorce papers when she came back.

    I didn’t know how she’d react. Probably call me a bitch again. Or worse. But it didn’t matter. I’d let the lawyers sort the mess out.

    Her trip was a week long. I spent the time consulting attorneys, drafting documents, and rediscovering what peace and quiet felt like.

    It was the final night of her trip. Tomorrow, she’d be home.

    I poured myself a glass of Jack Daniels No. 7—my go-to. I’d spent the week juggling overtime with laundry and cleaning. It was exhausting, but also kind of… grounding. Whiskey helped take the edge off, but it was no shoulder rub like the ones Claire used to give me.

    The Last Call from Claire

    I sank into the recliner, savoring the quiet, when my phone buzzed. Claire’s ringtone.

    I groaned. It was late. If I didn’t have tomorrow off, I’d already be in bed.

    I figured she was calling to yell at me about some last-minute resort charge or to start the nagging early. I knocked back a shot and picked up.

    “Hello?”

    Static. Then—

    “Mark! Please help me! There’s something stalking me!”

    Her voice was low, frantic, a breathless whisper. The second shot had just started hitting me.

    “Claire? I can’t hear you. Speak up.”

    “You drunk asshole! Your wife is in trouble! You promised to protect me!”

    The whisper turned into a strangled hiss—like she was shouting through clenched teeth. I rolled my eyes, already preparing to throw her own vows back at her, when a shriek rang through the line.

    And then—silence.

    Not a hang-up. Not a disconnect. Just… nothing.

    Except… maybe something.

    A rustling sound. Giggles? Grunting? Bare feet scuffing tile? Hard to say. Nothing direct. Just noise.

    I stared at the phone for a few seconds, waiting for her to come back on. She didn’t.

    Must’ve been a prank. Can’t wait for more of that when she gets home.

    I poured one more shot, knocked it back, and went to bed.

    📌 Stay Tuned for Part Two

    If you liked this story, share it and follow along as things get stranger in Part Two—coming next Monday.

  • The Mirror Spoke Softly – A Dark Fantasy Horror Tale

    The Mirror Spoke Softly – A Dark Fantasy Horror Tale

    The Mirror Appears

    Deborah placed the mirror between her bookshelves with the care of someone introducing a relic into their sanctuary, a kind of private cathedral built from books and stray paper and the quiet rituals of a solitary life. The mirror was tall and unnervingly elegant, the kind of object that seemed not merely found but summoned—its silver frame dulled by time and tarnish, the vine work etched into its surface twisting in upon itself like secrets written in a forgotten alphabet. Serpents curled along the edges, mouths open in silent hisses, and the entire surface gave off an inexplicable warmth, as if it retained the memory of other hands, other rooms, other worlds.

    Subtle Shifts

    Even in the absence of light, it shimmered faintly, as though moonlight lived inside it, and caught the soft glow of her desk lamp the way still water catches the reflection of stars. At first, it was nothing more than an aesthetic indulgence, a whimsical addition to her otherwise joyless apartment, which smelled faintly of old coffee and neglected dreams. A nod, perhaps, to the fantasy novels stacked on her shelves and the tarot cards she never quite learned to read. Just a little magic, she told herself. Something beautiful to break up the monotony.

    But within days, something subtle shifted, as though the mirror were not merely a surface but a threshold, and her reflection—so obedient, so familiar—began to misbehave in the smallest, most disconcerting ways. There was a pause. A breath of hesitation. She would reach for a pen or turn her head and catch, from the corner of her eye, the disquieting sense that the figure in the mirror was only pretending to mimic her, following her actions not out of instinct but out of calculated performance, a half-second too slow.

    The Wink

    She told herself it was fatigue. The mind playing tricks in the liminal hours between wakefulness and sleep. After all, she hadn’t been sleeping well. She hadn’t been doing much of anything well.

    Then one night, it winked.

    Her reflection—her, and not her—winked with deliberate slowness, with an almost indulgent grace.

    A Vision of Power

    Deborah had not moved.

    She stood frozen, rooted to the floorboards, unable to look away, her breath caught somewhere between her ribs and her throat, where it lodged like a stone. The woman in the mirror wore robes of such deep black they seemed to absorb the light around them, and her shoulders were draped in shadow. In one hand, she held a staff carved from something that glimmered like bone under glass, etched with runes that squirmed and rearranged themselves when she tried to understand them.

    Behind her, the apartment had vanished, replaced by a cavernous stone hall that rose into darkness, its stained-glass windows shedding unnatural light in colors that made her stomach churn, and torches guttered with violet fire along its walls.

    Then, in an instant, it was just her reflection again—Deborah, plain and exhausted, with ink smudges on her fingers and a hoodie stretched thin from years of wear, standing amid the clutter of books and unopened mail.

    The Pull of the Mirror

    But the image stayed with her, lingered like a dream that refused to be shaken off. She found herself returning to the mirror night after night, no longer out of curiosity, but need—a deepening hunger for something she could not name. Each night, the mirror version of herself reappeared, a figure of impossible power and uncanny grace, soaring above burning cities, conjuring beasts from smoke and ash, casting spells with a language that burned on her tongue even in silence.

    Sometimes, a voice—rich and low and honey-slick—spoke to her in thoughts not entirely her own: You could be me.

    And slowly, day by day, she began to believe it.

    Abandoning the World

    She stopped going to work, let her email rot unopened, and ignored the mounting pile of messages from concerned friends and unpaid bills. She let the outside world crumble into static while the mirror world bloomed in color and flame. The reflection began to teach her things—chants that slithered off her tongue like live things, sigils she traced on fogged glass that made the lights flicker and hum. Her houseplants sprouted and withered in the space of an afternoon. Water boiled without heat. Her own skin began to feel too warm, feverish, as if it were preparing to shed.

    She smiled more often, but the smile was crooked now, unfamiliar, not quite anchored to her own bones.

    Crossing Over

    Then, one night, the mirror changed. It pulsed—not with light, but with intent, as if it were breathing, exhaling some unseen mist that made the air in the apartment dense with promise. Her reflection stepped forward, closer than it had ever dared, and extended a pale hand that shimmered like moonlit marble. Deborah, trembling and hollowed out by longing, raised her own hand to meet it.

    Her fingers passed through.

    The sensation was an immediate wash of scalding heat followed by a suffocating cold that spread across her limbs like frostbite blooming from the inside. She gasped. Somewhere, her heart pounded like a warning bell. But it was too late.

    She stepped through.

    A New Prison

    There was no ground beneath her.

    Only falling.

    She plummeted through a tunnel of stars and wind and memory, through a screaming sky that twisted and broke and reformed around her. Time unraveled. Her thoughts scattered like ashes.

    And then—silence.

    When she opened her eyes, she was back in her apartment. The same bookshelf. The same lamp. But something was wrong. She could see, but she could not move. Could not blink. Could not scream.

    Because she was inside the mirror.

    And the other Deborah—the one in black robes, with calm eyes and a smile as sharp as glass—stood where she had once been. She turned her head, adjusted her hair, and walked to the door with the effortless ease of someone who had always belonged in that body. When Garret knocked and asked if she was okay, the new Deborah opened the door and laughed lightly, telling him she’d simply been tired.

    Inside the mirror, the real Deborah watched, screaming silently as the doppelgänger slid into her life with elegance and grace, as if she had been rehearsing this moment for centuries.

    The mirror no longer shimmered.

    It pulsed, faintly, like a heart slowly dying.

     

    If you enjoyed The Mirror Spoke Softly, you might also like My Mother-in-Law Moved In… Then Things Took a Dark Turn

     

  • The Black-Eyed Children Came Knocking… Again

    The Black-Eyed Children Came Knocking… Again

    Jedadiah woke up to the usual tapping on his front door. He rose from bed and swung his long legs off, not wanting to wake up the missus. Upon sitting up, the bedroom window loomed before him. It was a gloomy day in September, almost looked like it could snow. He chuckled as he stood up in his long johns and took a decent look, ignoring the tapping which had turned to a knock.

    The hilly grasslands waved at him. Sure, was windy, he thought. A storm was definitely a-brewing outside. The apple trees, too, swayed—fruit falling off. He finally blinked the sleep out of his eyes and tuned his ears to the now pounding front door—best alarm clock he never intended to install.

    Unhurriedly, he strode across the wooden boards of the bedroom to his sleeping wife, who had pulled the blanket over her head. He ruffled her scalp and kissed her. She let out a loving growl, saying, “answer the damn door already!”

    Again, he chuckled as he slid on his slippers and stepped out of the bedroom and into the hallway. They had a somewhat quiet life in Western Appalachia, albeit unusual from city life many would be used to in the greater United States, but Jedadiah, his wife, and their kin loved it. It was a refuge away from three BIGs: Big Government, Big Tech, and Big Pharma.

    “I’m coming, I’m coming,” said Jedadiah. He holstered his sawed-off shotgun into his side holster and grabbed a couple special buckshot he received from one of his neighbors, placing them into his breast pocket.  He wrapped his shoulder holster with two .45s buckled inside over his pajamas and proceeded to make some coffee.

    “We do this every morning, Jamie,” muttered Jedadiah scooping the coffee and putting in the filter. “Is it possible you can just go back home without a long-winded story?”

    The pounding stopped as soon as Jedadiah opened his mouth and then an earie silence hung as Jedadiah continued with coffee preparation, pouring water into the machine and pressing the start button. He listened to it whir and steam before ‘Jamie’ finally said something.

    “Please sir, my sister and I are lost and need to use your telephone. Please, we need your help.”

    Jedadiah shook his head. “Jamie, is your sister actually with you today or are you fibbing again?”

    Silence. “Please sir, we need your help.”

    The pounding began again. It sounded like a boot against the bottom of the door this time.

    Jedadiah pulled out his shot gun and loaded the two barrels.

    “Jamie,” said Jedadiah, impatience growing, “Every morning you pound on my door, and every morning I hand you my cell phone, and every morning you don’t remember your parent’s number…” He pulled his old flip phone off an old charger on the kitchen counter and stuck it in his pocket before opening the door to “Jamie” and “His sister.”

    “Jamie” and “His Sister,” who typically didn’t show up, stood in the entry way, white as ghosts and their eyes black as coal. No pupils. Just a pool of black. Jedadiah held his shotgun at the ready as he pushed them towards the porch stairs so he could close the door behind him.

    He pulled out his cell phone and tried to hand it to Jamie. Jamie just looked at it puzzled.

    “Look, Jamie, it is a phone. I’ve showed you this before, remember?”

    Jamie didn’t lift his hand to take it. He just stared at it and then at Jedadiah.

    “I need to use your phone. We are lost. Let us come in.”

    Jedadiah looked down his porch to see the familiar hag he would see on occasion counting the bristles on his boom that he had hanging on the corner of his wraparound porch.

    “Good morning, Miss Maisie! Any telling how many bristles are on that broom there?” said Jedadiah, smiling, as he took a seat in his rocking chair, the black-eyed-children still staring at him.

    “Oh drat!” Miss Maisie shouted. “There are so many, Jedadiah! So many! How is one to count so when one can’t remember which ones one has already counted!”

    He watched as she pulled at the bristles with her clawed hands and pulled them one by one, counting and ultimately losing some as she pulled a new one.

    “Well,” said Jedadiah, “Keep trying, I guess.”

    She shushed him as he turned back to the children who stood menacing him as he rocked in his chair.

    “Well,” said Jedadiah, “You want to use my phone or not?”

    Again, he tried to hand them the phone only for them to stare at him with their dark eyes, unblinking.

    There was a time when Jed would have been unnerved by that, but he was over 60 and seen plenty more in the woods around his property that he wasn’t going to be intimidated by some lackluster “kids.”

    They didn’t take the phone. They just lingered for a while as Jedadiah rocked in his chair. Eventually they left without a sound, where Jed never knew.

    “Finally!” he said, and like clockwork he heard the coffee maker steam and finish. He rose up and got his first cup of coffee for the morning and then figured out his plans for collecting the apples. Maybe Miss Maisie would help him count. He laughed as he turned his head in her direction.

    “Damn it, Jedadiah! Quit distracting me!”

    He watched her start all over again, shaking his head and sipping that fine, dark roast.