An Acorns Flash Fiction Feature
By: Tom Howard
Naked trees rattled around him as he tramped through the snow, ruining his expensive leather shoes. He cursed the unexpected blizzard destroying his plan to be as far from his wife’s body as possible. He’d hidden his car on the other side of the hill from the hotel, but a bad snowstorm had settled over the area, and he’d gotten lost. Damn weather channel.
Shivering, he pushed aside a branch and gasped when it dropped a wet clump of snow down his back. His suit was wet, his shoes squished, and he couldn’t feel his fingers. Where the hell was his car?
He’d lured Beatrice to the hotel under the promise of a weekend getaway. Her fat dead body lay wrapped in a bloody shower curtain in the tub. The wiped knife rested in the bottom of the wastepaper basket.
The bare trees on the hill didn’t block the snow, which had grown worse since he started. He’d gotten turned around in the dark and had no idea how long he’d been lost. Ironic if he’d planned the perfect murder only to die of hypothermia in the woods.
A fallen log beneath the blanket of snow caught the toe of his shoe, and he fell into a snowbank. An owl hooted in the distance.
“Damn you, Beatrice.” He spat out a mouthful of snow. He’d married her for money, but her father held the family purse strings too tight for her husband to get any.
He pushed himself to his feet. His wet clothes clung to him. Maybe if he had more body fat like Beatrice, the cold wouldn’t bother him.
The wind blew ice crystals into his eyes while he staggered down another hill, unable to tell if he’d been there before. What did you do when you were lost in the wilderness? Go downhill, find a creek, and follow it. With his luck, he’d fall into a river and die in a block of ice. Beatrice, who loved telling him how to do things, would have suggested a dozen ways for him to get out of this predicament.
Brushing aside fat flakes, he didn’t notice the small light ahead until he stumbled across a snow-covered driveway.
The cabin, a rambling shack with a wraparound porch, lay half-buried under the snow. Two small windows glowed amber with flickering light as he climbed the steps. He didn’t see a car. He didn’t see a garage. Well, maybe they had a phone. He’d left his in the car.
He pounded on the door with a clenched fist, and after a few minutes, it was opened by a small woman. She peered at him through thick glasses.
“You’re late,” the old woman said. “My nose has been itching all day. Means company is coming. Come in.”
She opened the door wide, and he entered without asking who she’d been expecting on such a stormy night.
The room was hot from the roaring fireplace, or maybe his body temperature had dropped so low that anywhere out of the storm seemed tropical. At one end of the room, a large hearth fire crackled. Beside it sat a rocking chair. Folded quilts lay stacked atop an old trunk situated at the end of the room away from the fire. Faded family photos and an outdated calendar from a funeral home hung on the walls. The room smelled of cinnamon and cedar.
“I’m sorry to bother you,” he said. “I’m Nathan, and I’m lost.”
Her eyes twinkled in the light from the kerosene lamps. “Pleased to meet you. I’m Minerva Amburn but everyone calls me Minnie.”
“Do you have a phone or someone to take me to town?”
“Sorry. Neither. You’re stuck out here until the blizzard blows over. According to my knees, it’ll be a few days. I’ll get you some dry clothes.”
She disappeared through a thin sheet hanging over a doorway, and he considered his options. The old woman could identify him, and he was running out of time. She had to go. If they found Beatrice before he came up with a valid reason why he couldn’t have committed the murder, he’d get the electric chair. If he buried her in a snowbank, the old woman wouldn’t be found for months. Accidents happened to old people all the time.
Happy with his plan, he took deep breaths to quell the panic making his palms sweat.
Minnie looked like she was a hundred. Her hair was steel gray and gathered in a braided bun on the back of her head. Her glasses magnified her blue eyes, and her perfect teeth had to be dentures.
When she returned, she carried a flannel shirt and pair of pants. “I’m sorry, but my husband’s shoes are too small for you. Leave yours by the fire to dry.”
He took the clothes. “Where is your husband?”
“Truman’s been dead for twenty years. He won’t mind you borrowing his clothes. You can change back there.”
“Thank you.” He left his shoes on the hearth.
She rubbed her nose. “Still itching. Means more company is coming. I can’t reckon why anyone would be out on a night like this.”
Great. More witnesses if he put much stock in her irritated nose. He didn’t. He went through the curtain, leaving damp footprints from his waterlogged socks. The small back room held a cot and a rack of clothes on a broom handle across one corner. Did the old woman sleep here? He changed from his soggy wool suit into a faded shirt and a pair of stiff jeans that smelled of camphor. He cinched up the old belt around his trim waist, grateful she’d included hand-knitted wool socks. A small mirror, cracked and askew, hung on the wall, and he ran his fingers through his curly black hair. With his good looks, he could marry anyone with money next time.
Warm and dry, he took a deep breath and planned what to do next. He had no idea where he was or how to get to the nearest highway. How long before someone found his wife’s body? She might not be discovered until the hotel maid came in the next morning. With his alibi of being miles away destroyed, his remaining option was to run. He had money and a passport stashed in a suitcase in the trunk of his car. He just had to find a way back to it.
Feeling human again, he carried his wet clothes into the living room.
Minnie sat reading by the light of the kerosene lamp. Dark veins stood out on the backs of her hands. She looked up from the book in her thin fingers.
“Just hang those on the nails on the wall over there,” she said. “They’ll be dry by morning. It takes most of the night for the fire to die down.”
“Thank you, again,” he said, “Minnie.” He’d almost forgotten her name. “What are you reading?”
“The good book, Mr. Franks. I read it every night. Are you a Christian, sir?”
The leatherbound book had the corners worn off from years of reading. “Yes, ma’am. Methodist born and raised.” He hadn’t been to church since he left for college. Beatrice went twice a week.
Minnie nodded. “Good to hear. I’m reading Psalms, my favorite book. Psalms 7:15 and 16. ‘He has dug a pit and hollowed it out and has fallen into the hole which he made. His mischief will return upon his own head, and his violence will descend upon his own pate.’”
Nathan froze. Why had she read that verse? Was she messing with him?
She looked over her thick glasses. “Coffee, Mr. Franks? I kept a pot warm for you.” She stood and moved into the kitchen, placing the worn bible on the table. Her back cracked as she stood.
Through the open doorway to the kitchen sat a wood-burning cookstove. She removed an enameled coffeepot and returned with it and a cup.
“I have sugar and powered milk.” She poured the coffee with a steady hand.
“No,” he said. “Black is fine. Thank you.” He took the offered cup and moved to the window. “You’re not having any?”
“Oh, no. If I drink coffee this late, I’ll be up and down all night. The outhouse is too far away in the snow.”
He parted the window curtains, more worn sheets, and peered at the ghostly landscape. The snowfall had slackened.
Something moved on the hillside, a gray movement amid the whiteness. A shrouded figure struggled down the hill. “Who’s that?” he asked.
Minnie joined him at the window. “It looks like our company has arrived. My nose is never wrong.”
The stranger in the snow fell, picked themselves up, and trudged closer. Something about the stranger’s movements seemed familiar. His heart raced, and he opened his mouth to scream but no sound came out.
Minnie peered through the glass. “Poor thing. Out on a night like this wearing only a shower curtain.”
Her eyes twinkled in the firelight, and she chuckled. “I guess this is the ‘violence will descend upon his own pate’ part of your story, Nathan.”
About the Author:
Tom Howard is a fantasy and science fiction short story writer living in Little Rock, Arkansas but originally from the Smoky Mountains.