The Seary Line by Nicole Lundrigan

somewhere in the distance, above the faded whistling, he heard a sharp shovel wounding a plot of wet earth.
    Uncle awoke, sweating, cramped legs wrapped in a sheet. He got up, dressed, and went for a drink from the jug in the kitchen. Glancing at the ceiling, the papered walls, he suddenly felt trapped, stunted, had the urge to strip off his clothes, peel off his skin, and flee. But he had simply stood, staring at the wrinkled cotton towel hanging near the stove, and wondering how to go back in time.
    â€œWillard. Willard?” Firmness in her voice, a firmness he needed.
    Uncle’s cup and saucer rattled in his hand. She was the only person on the earth who called him by his name.
    â€œYou okay?”
    He watched the steam from his cup rise straight up, ascending towards heaven.
    â€œYou’re so pale. Would you like–”
    â€œDon’t,” he whispered, then put his hands on his lap, leaned his chest into the table.
    â€œDon’t what?”
    â€œTry.”
    â€œTry what, Willard?” Her back was straight now,pressed against her seat. “You’re sitting here in my home. At my table. I’m just trying to be hospitable.”
    â€œDon’t. I don’t deserve it.”
    â€œYou’re right. You don’t deserve it.” She took a long slurp of her tea. “It’s all just foolishness, anyway. Utter foolishness. This life. Our tangled story – or lack of a story. I feel like a silly old woman, Willard. All these years.” Her voice was an undercurrent, invisible, overtaking him. “What’s wrong with me? How come I never stopped?”
    â€œStopped?”
    â€œYou know what I’m talking about. I should’ve moved on. There was certainly plenty of opportunity.”
    He closed his eyes. “Of course.” There would have been.
    â€œBut I couldn’t. I never stopped.”
    â€œStopped.”
    She whispered now, body slumped. “Never stopped believing I was yours.”
    With these words, Uncle gathered himself up and pulled himself in. He squeezed his face, his shoulders, his behind, his legs and toes as hard as he could. A horrible tightness gripped every vein in his body, constricting the blood, constricting his heart, constricting the blast of emotion that throttled him. He was unable to speak, and stood up, stumbled from her home. Falling through the fields, the grass twined around his legs, claiming him.
    He made it to the fence, their shared fence, and stopped at the gate. He had touched that gate untold times over the years, but never lifted the latch, never tested the metal hinges. With as deep a breath as he could muster, he pushed it open. The wood was nearly rotted, but it moved effortlessly, not a single squeak.
    Bending over, he gripped his knees with his hands, triedto calm himself. It was then that he noticed the hinges. So new-looking. Not a single speck of rust. He tilted closer, knocked them, then peered at the shimmer on his knuckles. A faint smell of grease tweaked his nose. Left alone, nature would have destroyed them. Instead, someone had been tending to those hinges all these years.
    He sat down there, in the opening between the two properties, one bent leg leaning to the north towards Annabelle’s, and one to the south towards his own home. Divided. Uncle leaned his head against the gatepost and allowed his lids to droop.
    She came upon him like this, placed a pale hand on his bristly mottled cheek and began to weep. He never made it home.

chapter three
    Even though Delia Abbott was on the tips of her toes, face pressed up against the window, she still could not see the beach. And to this day, it irritated her. Her husband owned a decent piece of land, and she could never understand why he chose to build their home where he did. While there had been many level areas, he had selected a small patch of struggling woods in the upper northeast corner. He cleared a path to the centre, felled the trees,