To Walk Alone

- news -

- Sif -

Sunlight broke through the dusty curtains of the old Victorian home. Dust particles danced on the still air, creating a hazy illusion in the quiet rooms. Nestled at the end of a long dirt driveway, the house was enclosed by hundreds of wooded acres. The breech of sunlight through the windowpanes wasn't always such a rare occurrence, but years of tedious care meant the trees had time to slowly encroach on the wooden frame of the once magnificent structure. Branches stretched toward the chipped yellow paint as if they might claw their way through the sides of the house at any given point in time, but they were paid no mind. A loose shutter rocked back and forth on its hinges, slamming every once and a while if the wind caught it just right.

It looked like no one lived there for twenty or thirty years. No one would think to approach the old home, especially since the trees all but closed off all sight of the place. It was so closed off, that even the locals had forgotten about it. It was as if the hundred-acre property no longer existed and simply vanished.

And it basically had.

Autumn was making itself known in the surrounding mountainside. The trees were turning various shades of red, orange, yellow, and everything in between. Leaves were falling from their branches, covering the forest floor, driveway, and what remained of the once impeccably kept lawn in a rich and vibrant canopy of colors.

No mail was delivered to the rusted-out mailbox that sat crooked at the end of the mile long driveway; besides, it was covered by vines. Inside the tin box, a bird obviously once called it home. Permanent potholes from weather and lack of care rutted the only entrance that led up to the house. A newer crimson red Ford pickup truck sat in the slightly tilting shed, very much out of place and covered in a layer of dust as if hadn't been touched in weeks. In truth, it hadn't been out of the shed in months. Peeling yellow paint showed weather worn boards beneath the frame of the makeshift garage, and the door that once slid across the entrance of the small building was propped on its edge out of the way.

Next to the truck, the muddied four-wheeler was clearly the chosen means of transportation. Dried dirt caked the wheel wells, and the key was still in the ignition.

From the outside, the property looked completely abandoned, but that was how she liked it. A porch swing rocked slightly as the only resident swayed comfortably back and forth; a cup of steaming coffee in one hand and a book propped open over her folded legs in her lap. Steam from the coffee swirled skyward but disappeared quickly into the cool air like a wisp on the wind; as if it never existed.  

Breathing deeply, she smelled the air around her for the hundredth time since stepping out into the early morning light. As always, her senses were on high alert while she sat there reading and drinking; the same routine she performed every morning for the last few years. Next to her on the bench sat an older black phone, her only lifeline to the outside world. She paid it no mind until it rang, breaking the silence of the morning aside from the slight creaking of the hinges of the swing. A pair of round eyes glanced simultaneously at the screen before turning back to the book. The name blinking at her wasn't unexpected, just unwanted, and as the ringing finally came to an end, she turned the page of her book and mentally counted to five.

Ring. Ring. Ring.

Sighing, she snapped the book closed and set her coffee down on the weathered porch railing before her. Snatching the phone, she tried not to let the irritation break through her tone when she answered.

"It's too early for work," she said calmly, and was met with a deep chuckle on the other end of the line.

"You claim you're never a morning person but here you are, wide awake and grumpy at seven A.M," replied the voice good-naturedly.