So, before you begin, I want to tell you all that this is based on a true story. Something like this has really happened. Also, rated 12+ because of the word "damn" being present and the subject matter is a bit...macabre.
A light breeze cools the woman’s face as she bends over a long-wasted garden. Her gnarled hand clutches a rusted, once-silver pail. She pulls at weeds, thinking them tomatoes. Muttering to herself, she looks up at the waning sunlight. Tea time.
Carrying the weed-filled pail, the woman struggles through the brambles and bunches of wildflowers. Vines pull and thorns claw at her ghostly pale legs, adding traces of scratches to purple spider web veins. She reaches the crumbling cement steps and stretches her left hand to grasp the rickety, blackened railing. Unsteadily, she steps up---right foot, then left foot. She steps again, her orthopedic sandals thudding dully. Her left hand trembles, steadily growing to a violent shake. She continues to journey up the steps, reaching for the black handle of the screen door; the woman pushes the button weakly and pulls. The hinges whine in protest.
The woman is greeted by the acrid sent of old coffee; she’d forgotten to turn off the percolator. “Damned new fangled gadgets,” She grumbles to herself, puttering to the stained white machine. It had been a gift from her grandson one Christmas many years ago. She presses a small black button, and a red light to the left blinks off. She sets the pail down on the counter, and takes a flowered tray from the old, wooden table. A once-beautiful teapot sits on top of the tray, flanked by a sugar bowl and a small pitcher of cream. Two chinked teacups complete the antique service. She shuffles out to the garage, where George awaits. With much effort, she balances the tray and pulls a cord attached to a light bulb. Several lights flicker on, casting a hazy golden glow. George sits on a flea-bitten, dark blue couch. It was the first one they bought as a married couple over sixty years ago. The woman sets down the tray on a beaten coffee table. She pours the tepid tea into the cup, then stirs in three spoonfuls of sugar and a little cream. George’s wife sets a saucer and the cup in front of her husband.
“How’ve you been, George?” her once rich, alto voice rang hollow in the dank garage. She stirs herself a cup and sips, patiently awaiting his response.
There is none.
“Oh, I know. Summer’s been brutal. But the tomato plants are lovely,” a smile is present in her voice.
George sits in utter silence.
“No, I don’t think so. Farmer’s almanac---for goodness’ sake, be reasonable, dear,” she shakes her head dismissively but smiles lovingly at her husband.
The old woman chatters while her husband blankly stares ahead. He doesn’t comment. Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t breathe.
“Oh my, dear, look at the time, Jill will be here any moment,” the woman chuckles. “And, frankly, you smell terrible!”
George is unfazed by the insult. The old woman stands, and with more liveliness in her step, finds the spray air freshener. She sprays George heavily, who doesn’t react.
Satisfied, the woman returns the tray to her kitchen. Someone knocks at the front door.
“Oh, I bet that’s Jill,” she says to no one in particular, puttering to the door as fast as her legs will carry her. She opens the door and smiles pleasantly. It’s two of her old gardeners, James and Cole. Between them, they conceal a body bag.
“You brought Jill! Do come in, boys,” the woman nods at the men and their precarious cargo.
“Sure thing, Ms. Tyler,” the shorter one nods. The men heft the body bag with low grunts and carry it in. “Uh, where do you want…her?”
“I told you to call me Jane,” The woman scolds gently. “Hmm, there’s a couch in the spare room, show her to that room, please.” She is carrying the same tray of now-cold tea to the living room. After quite a few minutes, the young men return to the living room and wordlessly stick a white envelope into each of their jackets. One folds the body bag neatly and stuffs it into a deep pants pocket. “Tea?” She asks, gesturing to the tray absently.
“No, thanks…Jane. We best be on our way now,” the taller one shakes his head and smiles almost apologetically.
She nods and smiles warmly. “Come back soon, alright, Cole? Jill would love to chat with you.”
“S-sure,” Cole nods, but doesn’t try to hide his quick escape.
Ms. Tyler shuffles to the guest room, not offended by the uneasiness of the men. Her twin sister, Jill, sits on the couch, hands folded neatly in her lap, blankly staring. The woman sits beside her sister, taking the cold hand in her own. “I’ve missed you sister. How have you been?”
Nothing.
“Oh my, I know…I was just talking about that to George. He’s missed you too, you know. It’s so great that you’re here to stay with us now. Well, now, we can’t have many guests over. Because…the dining room is still being remade.”
----
Days pass and meld into weeks. Jane spends her days chatting pleasantly to mutes George and Jill, punctuated by trips to the grocery store, the neighbors helping her. Jane lives a happy existence, reunited with her sister and still with her husband. Though neither of them ever move, nor ever speak, Jane is content. She periodically dusts them off and spritzes freshener across them.
As she walks back in from the waste that was once her garden, Jane senses something is amiss. She sets down her bucket of weeds and cautiously begins to walk around the house. She hears sounds--sounds Jill and George are incapable of making.
Four or so voices, all hushed, murmuring amongst themselves. Jane is confused; she hadn’t invited anyone over. She hasn’t had real company in eleven years, since George had come back. It was impossible. They wouldn’t understand her situation. The voices were emanating from the back of the small house, where Jill sat, forever staring straight ahead. Jane feels a sick sense of panic bubbling in her chest. She pushes the thought of who these people are out of her mind.
But it doesn’t work. She shuffles down the hallway, lost within her own mind. These people--they don’t understand a thing. They don’t know that George and Jill are very much alive. They all seem to think they’re dead. But she knows better. She really does. And as the only one who understands, it’s up to her to rescue her precious husband and twin. She did, too. She remembered how relieved George was to not have to suffocate in that pine box anymore. And how pleased Jill was to visit her sister.
Jane reached the back room, her worst fears confirmed. Four uniformed police officers stand around the room, some making notes, some taking photos, and one zipping up a navy blue body bag. She frowns, worried about Jill being unable to breathe.
“Jane Tyler?” a voice behind her asked.
She turned around to face another officer, this one a young man. “Would you be willing to answer a few questions in regards of the whereabouts of Mr. George Tyler and Ms. Jill Flannery?”
