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. It’s an apt metaphor for the rest of my life.

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.

Now every time he shows up at my door, I can only think one thing: Why are you always here? What do you want with me?

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?

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.

And as I close the door behind us, I can’t push away the feeling that I have made a grave mistake by inviting her in.

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.

“I swear.” I lay a hand on my chest. “I would never hurt you. You don’t have to worry.” “Maybe,” she says softly, “you’re the one who has to worry.”

Anyway, Mrs. Fleming doesn’t have any use for it anymore. She still hasn’t been back home since her little accident. I’m guessing she hasn’t woken up, or else the police might have shown up at my door.

I take the lighter and stuff it into my own pocket. My mom has a bunch of lighters, but she usually keeps them in her purse. You never know when something like this will come in handy.

When I do bad things, it’s always on purpose. If I mess with somebody, it’s only because they deserve it.

I think of the cigarette burns on her skinny arms as well as the bruises. I took the girl for a victim when I first saw her. But now I’m starting to wonder. I’ve got to get out of here.

“I’m Ella,” I finally manage. Then I think better of it and give my full name: “Elizabeth Casey.”

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

That’s what my father used to say jokingly whenever he would turn on the light in a dark room. Let there be light!

“He was asking me questions about you. By name. I remember he said, ‘The woman in the other cabin, Elizabeth Casey.’”

But all of a sudden, I am not eager for Lee to set foot in my house again—even on the roof.

How can I tell this girl that the boy who was her father was my very first friend? That I loved him in my own way—a way I’ve never quite felt since then. That I’ve missed him every day since the police hauled him off in handcuffs.