Echoes in the Parlour

Hazel Merriweather was known for two things in the small town of Crosswell: her immaculate porch geraniums and her lust for secrets. Every morning, as if on cue, she planted herself front and center in her window with a mug of cinnamon tea, and a made-up notebook she swore to God was for poetry. She wrote pieces of overheard arguments, sidewise furtive looks, and snatches of scandal, which she collated like pressed flowers.

And so when the knock came at her door that October afternoon, she thought another neighbor was coming to feed the vine.

Instead, she opened it to a stranger.

He was tall and lean, with an olive coat too finely made for a place like Crosswell on his back, gray hair at his temples, and eyes that were either brown or black but so dark they were hard to tell.

“Can I help you?” Hazel asked in that same cordial venom she ladled out in her gossip.

The man’s mouth twitched. “Hazel Merriweather, how do you kiss your grandchildren with that mouth?”.

She blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

Hazel’s posture stiffened. I don’t know who the hell you think you are…”.

“You know me right down to a T.” And you know what you have done.”

“I haven’t done anything wrong.”

“That is your first lie”, he said.

Hazel opened her mouth, but the man moved forward and reached on the woman’s forehead in coldwithunhurried precision. The contact was rude–as going barefoot onto frozen steel. Then, with the casual force, he pushed her.

She tripped back, snagged her heel on the step, and pitched crashingly to the floorboards. Her elbow hit the hall runner, her arm ached, and the humiliation burned the most. Hazel had not been on the floor since she was a child.

She gasped, and she was more indignant than hurt. “You can’t just barge in—”

But he already had. He walked over to her, closed the door, and threw the hallway into darkness.

Hazel scrambled up and went into the living room with him. Her husband Graham was unmoving in the recliner with the remote clutched in his hand like a talisman. Their two grown sons, Clive and Marshall, sat slouching on either end of the couch, fighting about something on their phones.

The three did not look around until Hazel stormed in behind the stranger.

“Who’s this?” Graham mumbled at the TV without taking his eyes off.

The man ignored him. He scanned the room like an appraiser would in a pawn shop.

“Dregs,” he said softly.

Clive frowned. “What in the hell did you just say?”

The man also leaned his head towards Hazel. “No wonder you killed them.”

The room fell silent. Marshall’s thumbs froze mid-scroll. Clive’s face tightened.

“What?” Hazel said, her voice a mere protest.

The man’s voice lowered. You sowed rot and spoke of truth. You were condemnatory and had to label it a concern. People believed you, Hazel. You ruined them.”

Hazel’s lip trembled. “That’s not true…”

“Ask Graham. He remembers what you told him regarding the neighbor’s boy. The way you whispered it to Margie Ellison in the hairdresser. The boy who committed suicide two weeks later”.

Graham flinched but said nothing.

The man moved towards the couch. “Go ask Marshall about what happened to that girl from his high school – Juliette Rawlins.” The one that you all said to be pregnant. She wasn’t, but her father sent her away. She never came back.”

Marshall looked at the floor. “That was just a rumor.”

“You were the echo,” the man said. “But she was the consequence.”

Hazel shook her head. “It wasn’t like that. I never—”

“You never stopped.” The man’s voice sharpened. And you do not have the option of playing innocent. Words are deeds.”

He then looked at Clive, who seemed deathly pale.

Didn’t you lie about your sister-in-law, did you, Hazel? They accused her of stealing from her kids. Said she was a drunk.”

“I—she—”

She died, and she was estranged from her children. You don’t even remember half of what you said, do you?

Hazel stepped back. Her vision swam. The walls of the room beat in and out of shadow.

“What is this?” she whispered. “Who are you?”

The man smiled – and Hazel could admire his teeth for the very first time. Perfect, white, and all wrong. Too sharp. Too uniform.

“You called me,” he said.

“I did no such thing!”

“You did, Hazel. With every lie you told. Every life you ripped up for your own pleasure. You used my money and I have come to pickup.”

“No,” she breathed. “You’re lying.”

“Ironic.”

And then things started to go wrong.

Graham’s eyes rolled back, or at least, Graham’s eyes rolled back in his head. A dark bloom in which a black stain emerged covered his shirt. He leaned forward limpnessly, his last breath vaporing the room like winter mist.

“Dad?” Marshall stood halfway, and something invisible hit him in the gut. He bent over and bled through his t-shirt.

Clive stepped back until he ran into the wall. “Stop it! Please—whatever this is—”

But the man could no longer hear. His eyes shone dimly as if there was fire behind them.

Hazel screamed. The sound hardly got out of her throat.

“What do you want from me?” she cried out.

“I want nothing,” he said. “However, the burden of your words has to hold somewhere. And today, it lands here.”

“You’re a monster.”

He knelt beside her with his face one inch away from hers. “No, Hazel. I’m the ledger. And you’re out of credit.”

Her hand shook as she went up and found the knife.

She did not know that it existed.

It was her kitchen knife. The one with the cherrywood handle. Covered in gore.

“No,” she whispered.

The man sadly looked at her. “You could never resist the dramatics. But denial will not rescue you anymore.

The room dissolved.

Hazel sank into blackness.

Four days later, a neighbor alerted the police after finding Hazel’s mail stacking up.

They located her sitting in her favorite chair with her eyes wide and unseeing; blood was pooling all around her and her family. The television was off, but Hazel’s eyes were focused on the dark screen as if knowing what was being played on it, they could see something the rest of the world would never share an insight into.

Dead, Hazel Merriweather was quiet for the first time in decades.

And Crosswell exhaled.