She brokered no foolishness.
Louise Mathews had seen more than her share of heartache and pain in her 108 years of life. I’d known her for about 30 of those years, and when she had first made her way to Cross, I’d been worried for her. She took up residence in a small shack a little close to the Hollow for my own comfort, but by the end of her first year, she’d managed to fight off several attacks by creatures that had gotten the better of folks half her age.
I didn’t worry about her after that.
In the following decade, she worked odd jobs, scavenged what wood and materials she could, and built herself one hell of a house. I helped on occasion, but it was nothing more than hammering a few nails here and there. She didn’t need any handouts, and I would have lost a good friend if I had tried.
Yesterday, a young man from Miskatonic attempted to drive her out of her home.
Part of it was because she’s a black woman. Part of it’s because she’s old. Mostly, it’s because they want her property.
Well, the young man was a fool.
She told him, in no uncertain terms, that she wasn’t interested in selling her property. He told her he wasn’t interested in buying it. She was going to gift it to the school.
That, according to Louise, is when I heard the gunshot.
Evidently, the young man didn’t realize she had a scattergun pointed at him from underneath the afghan draped across her lap.
By the time I arrived, the young man was gone, though how he managed it, I don’t know. There was a good deal of blood on the ground and where he had evidently parked his car.
Louise was still on her porch, reloading her scattergun and drinking rye whiskey. She grinned at me and welcomed me up. In her sweet, southern drawl, she told me what happened.
“He went back to the school?” I asked.
“It went back to the school,” she answered.
I raised an eyebrow.
“Ain’t nothin’ of his manhood left, Duncan Blood,” she informed me. “I hit what I aim at.”
That she did.