September 17th, H. Malakhi

Wednesday, September 17, ‘81

Wow! It feels like spring was only just yesterday, and here we are again with the first snow of the season. And a pretty early season too; I don’t remember the last time it snowed the middle of September. But it IS a nice change!

Charlie—I mean Charles (god, he hates it when I call him Charlie these days)—went out again the day before yesterday all up and down the creek and said he seen tracks in the mud. I asked him what kind of tracks, and he said too big to be wolf, and not bear either. He wasn’t real certain what it was, but he said there were a lot of them, and that that Jackson boy was going out with him when he got back into town to see if they couldn’t maybe see it and shoot it. Charles said there was something about the tracks that made him feel funny—like there was something just plain wrong about them. I hope he can find out what it is. Maybe I will mention it to Jonas and the others. What if it attacked Ricky’s bus! I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it.

Mister Cob was by earlier. Brought me a fresh apple pie. Said he baked it himself. I don’t believe him. It was REALLY good! Not even Missus Ashton can make them that good. But I suppose that Mister Cob just wants company. He seems a little lonely these days, and I suppose it’s the same reason I have been feeling so lonely too—all alone, the kids gone, and nothing but the silence for thought. Well, he stayed a bit and we visited and talked about when we were kids growing up here in the valley, and then he said he had some things to do and that he was quite thankful for the company and the talk. But not ten minutes later he was out on his porch again, so I think he was only being polite. I really would not have minded if he had stayed a little longer, at least until Charles came home.

I hardly know what to do with myself these days. It seems all I do is sit here and think, and think here and sit, and look in the mirror on my headboard. I don’t know—perhaps I am going a little strange—yesterday I could have sworn there was a smudge on the glass, but when I went to wipe it off there was nothing there but my own face looking back at me. It is so strange, and for a moment it seems to me as if there was someone—or something—else in the room. I feel a little funny even thinking it. I don’t believe in all that life-after-death rubbish, and I’m afraid to even tell Charles. He will just laugh at me. Maybe I will tell Missus Ashton. She has been such a good friend ever since—what am I saying?

Oh dear, that is Ricky at the door now and I still have not made supper. Better get to it! He is so cranky when he doesn’t get his supper right away.

H Malakhi

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