F4A - Makes No Difference Who You Are

F4A - Makes No Difference Who You Are

Deep in the woods, not far from a quiet little city, was a large but not too big house that had been there for as long as anyone could remember. It was just far enough away that, even as the city modernized and highways were put in going and leaving, the lights and noise didn’t reach the not-too-big home. To reach it you had to notice or find the dirt road leading off the highway and into the woods. Then to go up the dirt road you needed to be able to pass the large iron gate; an impossible task without climbing it, since the padlock on the gate was thick, old, and had rusted shut ages ago, clogged up with many lock-picking tools. There were marks from attempts to cut the chains and even several bolt cutters scattered and rusting on the ground.

If one did manage to get past the gate and fence to continue up the winding road, eventually the home could be seen. It was a Victorian style house, three stories tall, white with trim that was probably bright green once but had faded to the pastel green found on Easter eggs. The road made a circle around in front of the house, which had white double doors, both with rusted iron knockers. Red rose bushes sat on either side of the doors, both carefully and neatly trimmed. At all times. The windows were washed, and though the house was old and worn, it was cared for routinely.

See, the house had not been abandoned, not fully.

Inside lived a… woman.

The stories about the house don’t mention her. Really, there are barely stories about her house any more.

She had long brown hair that falls in gentle curls. Her face was heart-shaped, her chin small and sharp, her cheekbones high and angular. Her eyes were comically large, almost unnaturally big on her face, which only emphasized that her golden irises and pupils were in the shape of five-point stars. She wore dresses, old and worn like the house, in colors that were bright once but faded with thousands of washes. Her skin was pale as porcelain. Her figure flawless as a doll.

In the mornings she baked. Pies, breads, cookies. In the evening she tossed them all into the compost for the garden she tended to in the early afternoon. Before sunset she would clear the weeds from a single grave site at the edge of the property and wipe down the headstone with polish. She fed the chickens and collected their eggs for the baking. The jar of milk in the freezer never ran out. The ice never melted either. She dusted and cleaned, freshened sheets in the guest room for guests that never came.

She had not spoken for nearly a hundred years.

Until...