A Natural History of Hell: Stories
“Oftshaw was best known for a liniment of her own concoction, Mount Chary Galore, that had no other curative property than to make you feel generally right and was suspected of being some part of the black lace mushrooms she gathered by the light of an orange moon. She was a strange, solitary old bat, who’d been around so long she was part of the landscape. She’d swoop into town out of the deep woods at the base of the looming mountain, swerving all over the asphalt in her rusted Pontiac. Even t...he young boys with new driver’s licenses and stupid with courage cleared the road when they saw her coming. Sheriff Bedlow wrote her a stack of tickets through the years, but he was not particularly fearless and would only stick them under the busted windshield wiper when the car was parked and empty. She’d just crumple them in her boney hands and toss them in the dirt.
When she arrived in town, nobody ever came out to greet her, but eyes gazed from behind curtains or betwixt blinds.MoreLess
When she arrived in town, nobody ever came out to greet her, but eyes gazed from behind curtains or betwixt blinds.MoreLess
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