Some days, Nettie Lull lives on the edge of Gods’ Hollow on a street which has no name and which receives no mail.
At other times, there is no street, and Nettie Lull is a vague and unpleasant memory in the back of the mind.
For me, Nettie always exists. She never grows old, and I have never seen her young. Who she is, what she is, I don’t know and, quite frankly, I am afraid to find out.
I only ever see her at her well. She has bid me join her several times in the twentieth century, and I have. She draws water from her well, takes out a ladle and gives me a drink. I drink it, and wonder not at the sweetness of the water, but why she shares it with me.
I know it to be poison. She knows it will not kill me. Or even sicken me.
Is it because she wants to share her water? Wants but cannot? There are bodies around the property. Some from my time. Some even from my when. More than a few are from realities which have crept into our own.
Once, between the Great Wars, I asked her, “Why Cross?”
“Why not?” she replied with a grin. “Where else can so many of the damned cross paths?”
It was a fair question and one for which I had no answer.
I shrugged, accepted another ladle, and ignored the bodies of the murdered at our feet.
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