The Widow's Peak

Part Seven

Abigail couldn't believe how painful silence could be. When she rose to make tea, she felt a strange twinge in her jaw, urging her to exclaim: "Good morning!"

Strange, to say good morning to one who isn't there, she thought, It's become a peculiar habit.

As she ate, she missed hearing Rebecca fuss over how much she ate, or how much she worked. She missed hearing her niece's voice. Sniffling, Abigail staggered to the front door— dreading a day stuck inside that big empty house. Thankfully, mornings meant a trip to the market for her fabric.

Good morning, Nabby.

Abigail jumped. That terrible buzz tore through her ear. She froze; cold, slimy skin brushed against her cheek until she recoiled. Her breath sped into short, hard rasps.

Go away; I'm busy! she thought back.

Abigail walked briskly down the cobblestone street, shoes slapping against the rugged ground. A few people greeted her, but she couldn't hear them, as her heart pounded— each boom roaring in her ear, like angry footsteps, getting closer and closer.

Once inside Mrs. Saxon's Fabric Shoppe, she took a few deep breaths. No chills. No racing heart. Only that hideous, painful bzzzz tearing through her ear.

"Back again, Nabby dear?"

Abigail froze. This was neither the sweet chirp or Mrs. Saxon's voice, not did it emerge from her rosy plump face. It was a low, manly hiss from a towering shadow. Samuel Brasher!

I have more important things to worry about, Samuel, she thought, Like supporting my niece during a troublesome time.

Really? That's too bad, darling. Isn't that the one she had with...the Reverend?

Abigail felt through a rainbow of different fabrics, trying to distract herself with different textures. Silken. Rough. Smooth. Itchy. Prickly.

Stay out of Rebecca's business, you disgusting old man!

Haven't you done that enough? Seems to be if you hadn't been such a neglectful aunt, none of this would have happened.

Abigail froze. The words stung, but somehow, they didn't make any sense to her. She knew too well that arguing sense into this ghost, demon, husband, whatever, was an impossible task. Rebecca was no longer a little girl. She was a woman with her own life and desires-- something Abigail wished she was given by her own mother.

"Hello, Mrs. Saxon," Abigail greeted, spying the small, plump proprietor, "I'm looking to make a new dress for my niece. She's with child."

Fortunately, Mrs. Saxon didn't know Rebecca well. She smiled, congratulated the news, and showed Abigail a lovely display of blue-gray fabrics that "fit well, are comfortable, but do not bring too much attention to the growing figure.

Abigail giggled and chatted excitedly about her niece, but also added that it was a tough situation and she would do anything to help. Mrs. Saxon patted her hand.

"If only I had an aunt like you," she whispered, "Or a mother, I should say. What ever did happen to the girl's parents?"

"Passed in the flu of '61. 'Twas my brother Levi and his wife, Susannah."

"Oh my. I'm sorry to hear that. Then this child will be a blessing indeed!"

That horrendous bzzzzz tore through Abigail's ear, along with a strange itch between her thighs.

A blessing, indeed, you neglectful hag! Samuel spat.

"No!"

Mrs. Saxon jumped, arching an eyebrow.