Two years ago, a breezy fall night, leaves whipped up and carried away with the wind. A blood moon shining below, emitting an eerie light. On the roadside, every house had been demolished, except for two: her's and mine. Two identical houses, all alone like two ducklings stranded in a lake without a nurturing mother, except for one lone detail: the silver windchime that sat on her porch. She hung the windchime once a year, on Halloween, only to take it down the very next day. This tradition of her's had started when her husband had died. Mrs. Patty, or at least that's what everyone called her, was an eldery woman of about eighty, she had long flowing silver hair, and a smile that could make even the sourest of lemon sweet. Mrs. Patty has been widowed for about five years now, her husband having died of unknown causes. Weeks later, in late September, the windchime came into the picture. Mrs. Patty came home from shopping one day, the silver windchime in hand. She placed it in her husband's old chair, not hanging it. Occasionally, I spotted her talking to the windchime, as if it were an animate object. One day, I overheard her, she had referred to it as David, the name of her deceased husband. …show more content…
I awoke from my sleep, an early nightmare haunting my dreams, all lost in a sea of illusion. I sighed a breath of relief, but my eyes darted to the window, peering out into the sheet of darkness below. Down below, there was a small glimmer of light, coming from her porch. She was standing there, in her nightgown, in her chair. I of course, was too stupid to realize she had hung the windchime, and went back into a peaceful sleep to wake up later that