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cloudy gray milky fluids obscuring the contents had moved. It had rotated, ever so slightly. The faded label was now twisted to one side. She got up and walked over to it, momentarily distracted by the scene visible through the window. |
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The warm rain had eroded the snow's stranglehold on the roof of the old house and sheets of gray-white ice plunged by the window, crashing to the ground. It startled her. A shutter banged as the wind swirled and gusted. Despite the chill, Flora Saint Quentin felt small beads of sweat form under the high buttoned collar of her flowered dress. The droplets traced an erratic pattern down the hollow between her hunched shoulders. |
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The wet snow mass on the roof shifted again, and she knew it was inching its way toward the precipice. The old house creaked and groaned. This time she would be prepared. |
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Now a noise came from another part of the house. |
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Shadows grew longer, and the darkness seemed to intensify. |
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The noise again. A grating sound. Barely perceptible. |
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The jar had movedactually moved. |
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She reached out to touch it, and her hand recoiled. Now it was warm to the touch. |
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