Peggy McDowell owned a lot of cats. Her trailer in Trysdale always smelled of mildew and feline urine, and the weeds from her overgrown yard had latched onto the home, fixing the rotted mess to the ground. Wallace, Peggy's husband of thirty years, suffered a stroke and died last summer, leaving the widow a ghost of a woman. Nowadays she was often seen wandering the nearby North Woods at night, dressed in her silky flower-pattered nightgown and carrying an oil lantern, calling out, "Wall…ace… Wall…ace…" Trysdale children feared her, yet made a game of sneaking up to her leaning, weed-covered trailer, to steal a peak through the grimy windows and catch a glimpse of the spooky old crone.

But today twelve-year-old Dras Weldon decided to take the game a step further and venture a knock at Peggy's front door.

Rosalyn Myers, the same age as Dras to the day, pulled on his arm with a hiss. "Are you nuts?"

Dras cracked a goofy grin, scratching at his already disheveled blonde hair. "I'm just going to knock."

"What if she answers?"

"The idea is that I'll already be out of there by then."

"This is stupid," Rosalyn stated angrily, firmly placing her hands on her hips.

"Well, if your mom had cable out here—"

"I'm walking back home. If you want to be an idiot and do this, you're on your own."

Rosalyn threw back her long, bouncy auburn hair with a huff and stormed in the opposite direction. Dras watched, not at all bothered by her threat. He called after her casually, "Scared?"

The young girl halted instantly and waited only a moment before marching back toward Dras, waving her index finger madly. "Dras Timothy Weldon, if you ever—"

"Ha, ha. Gotcha."

Rosalyn fumed. "Just shut up and knock already so we can get out of here."

Dras took a bow, "Certainly," and made his way for the front steps of the rickety trailer.

Rosalyn rubbed her arms nervously, shooting suspicious glances to each side, fearful that something in hiding might pounce on them. She actually was afraid; she was mature enough to admit that to herself. But not mature enough to admit it to Dras.

Dras turned to Rosalyn, his eyes alight with mischief and his face smeared with a silly euphoria. He stuck out his tongue, then rapped hard on the aluminum door.

Knock-Knock!

The door flung open and Old Woman McDowell's stretched face appeared before them, her thin lips drooping, her eyes tiny beads of fire.

"What do you want?!"

Dras jerked back in terror, pulling his arms to his sides. He shrieked, "Holy Mary!" and took off running for the country fields beyond. Rosalyn's breath caught in her throat and she turned tail, too, Dras' heels little more than specks on the distant horizon.

Dras, you goofball! she screamed inwardly.

Suddenly, she heard crying behind her and skidded to a dead halt. Hesitantly, Rosalyn turned back to the shabby trailer and saw Old Woman McDowell leaning against the doorframe, her fat face in her meaty hands, weeping.

Rosalyn's expression softened and she approached the outcast woman.

"I'm sorry," the young girl meekly offered. "That was mean. We were mean."

The old woman jerked to attention, startled. She did not expect her tormentors to return, let alone apologize. Then, realizing that her tears were exposed, she quickly wiped them away with the too-large sleeve of her flower-pattered nightgown.

"You're not the first," the woman said, her voice little more than a warble.

Rosalyn stepped closer.

Old Woman Mc Dowell continued, "I hear the stories they tell about me in town. They think I'm crazy." Then softer, to herself, she muttered, "A crazy old fool…"

Rosalyn frowned, her heart torn between pity for the poor woman and guilt for her part in the ridicule. "I don't think you're crazy."

As if spotting an oasis in the desert, the old woman's thin, falling lips lifted ever so slightly in a wrinkled smile. "My name is Peggy."

Rosalyn extended a hand to shake. "I'm Rosalyn."

To Be Continued Tomorrow...

Copyright © 2008 Greg Mitchell, All Rights Reserved