The Intruder

by Freida McFadden

There is at least a fifty percent chance that in the next twenty-four hours, the roof of the cabin I’m renting will collapse and kill me.

You need to learn to relax a little. That was my goal when I moved out to this cabin in The Middle of Nowhere, New Hampshire. I wanted peace and quiet, which is exactly what I got. Even with all the chirping birds and crickets and woodpeckers, it’s so quiet that I’ve got no distractions from thinking about the complete mess I made of my life. I came out here after I lost my teaching job.

I wish I were anywhere else but here. I especially wish I were back in Boston, in front of my classroom. I miss my students. I would have done anything for those kids. Except that’s what got me into trouble.

I probably won’t die tonight. And if I do, the good news is that nobody will miss me.

I study Rudy’s drawn features, wondering if he might feel compelled to pay me back at some point for shoving his face into the ground. He seems like the petty type. Well, that’s what my gun is for.

I love sleeping alone—always have. I love stretching out over the entire bed and making little sheet angels on the mattress. I don’t need anyone hogging the covers or snoring. I feel sorry for all those poor souls who have to share their beds every night.

But just as I am about to put it down on the right corner, something stops me. There’s a pale face staring at me from outside my window.

There’s an intruder hiding in my toolshed, waiting to enter my home as soon as I crawl into bed and drift off into unconsciousness.

But if his interest in me isn’t romantic, what is it? Why is he always knocking on my door? There’s something about this man I don’t trust.

So why can’t I shake the feeling that something terrible is going to happen tonight?

We pass Mrs. Fleming’s house first. It’s dark inside. A few days after I took out her trash, she slipped and fell during the night, and she hit her head really badly. She’s in the hospital now, and they’re not sure she’s going to get better. In other news, I’ve had money for lunch for the entire week.

Yes, I killed my mother. She was a miserable person. Miserable to the people around her and miserable herself. It wasn’t until I was older though that I understood she had a disease that made her behave the way she did. Although the cigarette burns on my arms were all her.

When someone deserves bad things, he says, it’s sometimes up to you to dispense justice. My father taught me a lot of things over the years. But this is one piece of wisdom I will never forget.