She

She was coming. There wasn't anything in particular that made him expect her visit. She came by his little home in the woods every so often. She never announced herself, or sent word that her visit was nearing; she simply showed up, chatted with him for a bit, then left. But she was… unnerving, to him at least. Wherever she went, blackbirds followed. Whenever she left, tragedy struck.

The first time she came, he had just built his new house at the edge of the woods. He had come into some money--$20,000, to be exact--and decided to strike out on his own and build the life he had always wanted. He mistook her for a reanimated skeleton when he first saw her--dark, knowing eyes sunk deep into her skull; cheekbones sharply jutting out from a narrow face; long, spider-like arms and legs that were barely more than skin on bone. And she was green. A mottled, sickly green that almost camouflaged her with the darkness of the woods around him. He had just come back from playing with his old dog, and had barely taken off his boots when a voice like gravel spoke.

“Young Boy,” she rasped as she hobbled over, “bring that dog to me, I would like to pet her.”

What was the harm? He called his dog over from the grass and she ran her bony fingers through her fur. She took her leave soon after, shaking his hand and going on her way. He whistled for his dog to follow, and when she didn’t, he whistled louder. He went over to where she had laid down and immediately scrambled back at what he found. He felt for her pulse, an exhale, anything to assure him that his dog was alive. His face was wet with tears before he even knew he was weeping. He stayed kneeling over his lost companion for a long time. When afternoon turned to dusk, he moved the body to the clearing behind the house, and buried her.

He went inside and got ready for bed. When he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror, he had to look again. Horror grew in the eyes looking back at him. Lines--faint, but there--had etched themselves into the skin near his eyes and mouth, and he could have sworn he had more hair that morning. The next day, he went to the nearest town and commissioned a mask identical to his face, sans the wrinkles.

When She returned a second time, many seasons later, he was out in the clearing tending to his garden.

“Young Boy,” she called, and he looked up. She looked… different, not as skeletal. There was a slight sheen to her hair now, and she walked a little taller than before. But her eyes were still ancient, knowing. “Young Boy,” she called again--still in that raspy, gravelly voice, “what are you doing?”

“Tending to my garden, ma’am,” was his answer. “The trip to town is long, and I’d rather do it as little as possible.”

She smiled faintly and her gaze locked on something far away. A blackbird rose from its perch on her shoulder and pecked out the seeds from the ground while no one was looking.

“I used to have a garden. Let me see what you’re planting.”

Wary as he was, she had caused him no harm. She kneeled down next to him and picked up a few things now and again. Then she got up and bid him farewell with a handshake. He soon went back inside to wash up. It was sometime later when he peeked out his window, and nearly gasped aloud at what he found. His garden--every bit of it!--was wilted and dark with rot. He went outside--surely there was nothing wrong. His eyes were playing games with him. Yes--just a trick of the dim light. But when he got there, he crouched down low and tried to take a browned leaf into his hand. The leaf crumbled to dust as soon as his fingertips brushed it. All of his work, all of his toil, all for nothing.

He sulked his way back home, wanting only to go to bed. He peeled off his mask and splashed some cold water on his face. When he looked up, he flinched at the man looking back at him. The crevices on his face had become more pronounced and were now also carved into his forehead. His hair was riddled with grey and heavy bags sagged under his eyes. No one may see me like this, he thought to himself.

The next morning, before dawn's glow could reach the sky, he snuck into the barber shop in town. Quickly, he swiped a wig that resembled his former hair, and rushed back to his home in the woods.

When She came the third time, he thought he was ready. He had become wise to her tricks and sought to trick her. He had built a shambly little tree-house, high up near the canopy and filled with books and rations, in order to wait out her visits. If she can’t find me, he thought, she can’t make me any worse. And so he sat in his tree with his mask and his wig until he heard her.

Her voice was clear and grating, even from so far below him, “Young Boy.”

He peered down his tree, only to find a young woman looking around. Blackbirds flitted through the trees.

“Young Boy, I know you are there, and I know you know who I am.”

He kept very still and very quiet, trying his best to slow down his racing pulse.

“I only need a little of it, Young Boy,” she rasped, “just a bit and I’ll be on my way.”

A blackbird settled in his window. He didn't notice until the bird let out a world-shaking shriek. She pierced him with eyes far too old for such a young face and smiled. Nausea curled in his stomach.

“Very clever, Young Boy, but you cannot hide from me. Everyone meets me sooner or later.”

He chucked a little black notebook down at her, a last ditch effort at defiance, and narrowly missed the top of her head. Her smile twisted and soured into a sneer.

She took hold of his tree and for a moment, nothing happened. Then a great rumbling was heard and the trunk grew thin and the leaves shriveled up black and everything supporting him collapsed. He fell and fell and fell until he jerked to a stop. The blackbirds, a swarm of them carried him and dropped him only a little bit harshly at her feet.

“What have you done to me?” he demanded, scrabbling to set himself upright.

“Only what I must,” she answered, then glared down at him. She peeled off his mask and plucked off his wig, “but since you insist on staying a young boy,” the gleam in her eyes was maliciously gleeful, “I will ensure you never age a day.”

She grabbed him by the shoulders and he immediately felt himself shrivel up from the inside out. He tried to scream, but nothing came out. He tried to buck out of her grip, but her hands were like steel clamps around him. Soon, he found that he could feel nothing at all.

She delicately brushed the dust from her hands and looked on as it fluttered away on the breeze. She stepped over the mound of dust, and went her merry way, her blackbirds trailing behind her.