When the postal service brought the crisp brown box to her door, Mrs. Weedgrass was pleased to have finally gotten some mail. No one ever sent her packages or real letters the old fashioned way. It seemed everything that came via the postal service was official, devoid of kindness in some way.
The house was quiet - no one is ever home anymore - and so she took the box to her kitchen, the walls echoing with the tiny clinks of nicknacks shaking against old paint.
When she opened it, saw the contents, read the letter with its urgent warning...her heart skipped and she clutched the edge of the countertop. A bead of perspiration formed and dripped from her white hairline. (She did not like to sweat.)
And quickly aging Mrs. Weedgrass breathed in sharply, the oxygen catching coldly against her ribs as she did. She felt her organs liquify and her teeth then come down firmly together in a way they hadn't in years. Her red-brown eyes narrowed to slits then opened in a wild, hysterical way, rolling from side to side as she steadied herself.
This was the beginning of the punishments she always knew God would bring.
The young woman knew.
"God help me," Mrs. Weedgrass muttered hotly.
She knew.
"I knew it would be her," she added softly. "It had to be her."
And she placed the box back in its rightful room and went to the den to organize her thoughts. When she sat down, she peered down into the basket where she saw her last weaving project slowly unraveling...
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