What Those People Did to That Poor Old Man

After his wife passed on, old Giles
was all alone, and it seemed he liked it that way.
After a week of quiet, solitary reflection, he was seen
walking alone down by the river
whistling at birds and smiling to himself.

The girls in town said he made them
twitchy, even before his wife passed on
said he was the one who sent specters to their rooms
to watch them undress and bathe, and pinch them
hard and improper, said it got worse after his wife died.
One of them claimed they saw him hiding one night
just outside the house, eyes glowing in the moonlight
evil intent all over his face.

No matter what they did to him
they couldn't get Giles to confess either way
couldn't get him to point his finger at another party
couldn't get him to pass the blame. In the end, he just stopped talking.
He stayed silent even when they piled
the rocks, one after another
on his pale, emaciated chest
only letting out a tiny squeaky wheeze
just before the bones gave way.

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Holly Day's writing has recently appeared in Analog SF, The Hong Kong Review, and Appalachian Journal, and her hobbies include kicking and screaming at vending machines.