The Intruder

by Freida McFadden

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?

(Apparently, I believe Paul Bunyan has been hiding in my toolshed.)

I take quick stock of the situation: there is a violent storm raging outside, a tree is about to fall on my house, and I’ve invited a bloody girl with a switchblade to spend the night. All I need is to contract a flesh-eating virus, and my night will be complete.

I don’t know what to say. We have more macaroni and cheese in the pantry than any human could eat in a lifetime. Plus, the stove is so covered in junk, we can’t cook it, so it’s useless. “It’s expired. For more than a year.” “Macaroni and cheese doesn’t expire!” Nothing expires, according to her. Even if it’s growing mold. “Those dates are just the way they trick you into spending money to replace food that’s perfectly good.”

But there isn’t anything I can do when she decides to lock me up. She swings me by my arm into our hall closet.

Kids are so vulnerable, and when the most important adult in your life betrays you, it’s hard to ever come back from that.

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.

Televisions weren’t even invented until the early twentieth century, and look how dependent we are on them.

“I…I can’t sleep.” Even though I have now pegged her to be about twelve or thirteen, there is something very childlike about her declaration. After all, only children think to fetch an adult to help them sleep. As an adult, you just lie in bed, struggling with your insomnia and trying to stave off your own dark thoughts alone. I feel a stab of guilt that she trusts me enough to elicit my help after I went through her stuff.

Hoarder. In my heart, I always knew that’s what my mom is. But somehow, I never heard anyone say that word before.

Do you know how people say something is so easy, they could do it with their hands tied behind their back? Well, I will definitely never be using that expression ever again. Nothing is easy with your hands tied behind your back.

I imagine her realizing that she was going to burn to death in a house with all her junk.

“It sounds like…” She winces. “Your mom didn’t make it.” For a moment, I can hardly believe it. I knew what I was trying to do, but I didn’t believe it would work. I sit there, unsure how to react. Cry. Cry, stupid.

Yes, I killed my mother.

When I get in my head like this, it seems almost impossible that everything will go well.

When someone deserves bad things, he says, it’s sometimes up to you to dispense justice.

What can I say? I am a sucker for child abusers getting what they deserve.