The Widow Parkhurst by Hugh J. O’Donnell

The Widow Parkhurst stood at the door to the farmhouse, looking out into the moonlit prairie night. The farm seemed deserted. The wheat danced in the breeze. But somewhere out there her cat was yowling.

The rest of the house was asleep, and all of the farmhands were in town, drinking, gambling, or otherwise frittering away their pay. She sniffed contemptuously.

She was still a young woman, and there were whispers in the pews when she arrived at church unaccompanied on Sunday. Folks even asked her why she hadn’t remarried. Running a farm wasn’t women’s work. She always said the same thing. When she met another man that wasn’t a beast, she would consider it.

Running the farm  hadn’t been easy. It took nerves of steel and a determination not to let herself be intimidated by anyone. She learned to get by alone.

She pulled on a pair of boots and pulled her black shawl over her shoulders. The full moon lit the path towards the outbuildings as clear as day, so she left the lantern by the door and tucked a shotgun under her arm instead, just in case.

Daisy wasn’t hard to find. The calico kitten was practically standing on her hind legs, tail puffed out and screeching up at something on top of the shed roof. Her attention was so focused that she didn’t notice Mrs. Parkhurst approach. She picked her up by the scruff of the neck and tucked the squirming feline into a pocket of her dress.

A flicker of movement caught her eye and she trained the rifle on the roof of the shed, where a figure was crouching behind the cupola. From this distance, she couldn’t make out much detail, even in full moonlight, but she remembered an odd request from one of the farmhands, who hadn’t gone into town with his fellows that evening.

“Henson? Is that you?” The figure rose a bit from its ineffective hiding spot.

“Sorry, Mrs. P,” he said. There was something odd about his voice. It sounded like Henson, the quiet, tall, dark man who had arrived at the start of last season. But there was a mushiness to his speech, like his tongue was too big for his mouth.

She didn’t mind the man, even if he didn’t go to church on Sunday. He didn’t drink or gamble, either and he was always polite. When he’d asked to make use of her shed on full-moon nights, she had figured he was part of some heathen religion, and granted his request, so long as he didn’t make a mess or cause any trouble. He hadn’t until tonight.

“What are you doing up there?” She asked, and she notice that he was trying to hide further behind the cupola. She’d heard stories about pagan rituals, and dancing naked in the moonlight and so forth. She hadn’t paid them any mind, but she supposed there was the proof. But had he always been so broad and tall, not to mention hairy?

“Well, I was, er, getting myself situated for the evening, and I hadn’t noticed Daisy napping in the corner of the shed. I tried to put her out, and she started making a fuss, and, well..” He trailed off sheepishly. But something about the silhouette put her in mind of another animal.

“I’ve got her well in hand, so you can climb on down.”

“That wouldn’t be a good idea, Ma’am.” She laughed.

“If you think I’m embarrassed about your state, don’t you mind. I’ve buried a husband and raised two boys. I’ve seen it before, and there’s nobody here to gossip.”

“It, ah, it ain’t that,” he said, and rose to full height, unfolding taller and broader than she had even thought possible. In the light of the full moon, he was seven feet tall at least, and the thickly furred body ending in a head with tufted ears and a muzzle. The Widow  remembered other stories she’d heard about full-moon nights.

But the horror of campfire tales didn’t match up with the man who’d leapt to the shed roof and let himself be cornered by a kitten, rather than let the creature come to harm. He had a kind soul, indeed. He was looking down at her, waiting for an answer. She ignored her hammering heart. And wailing kitten.

“Well,” she said after a moment. “I’ll take Daisy back to the house, and I’ll leave you in peace. You have a safe night, Mr. Henson.” She turned to go, breaking her gaze away from the monster, deliberately turning her back to him. After a moment, she heard the sound of claws along the roof, and again along the wooden slats of the shed.

“I appreciate it, ma’am.” Again, it was unfailingly polite, but she had the distinct impression that if she left it like that, she’d find an empty shed in the morning,  and he would be gone. There was something achingly sad about that. She paused.
“And in the morning, when you’re composed, we’d like to have you up to the house for breakfast.”

“Ma’am?”

“Only if you’re feeling up to it. It’s nothing fancy, just bacon and porridge, maybe some oat cakes.”

“That’s right kind of you, Mrs. P. I’d be much obliged,” Henson said, his voice slightly muffled by the shed door.

“Please, Mr. Henson, call me Mariah.”

She turned and headed back to the house, shutting the door and depositing the kitten in a basket, where she circled and grabbed at her own tail. She looked out the window at the fields. Everything was peaceful again. Breakfast. Well, it was a start. And if Mr. Henson was a beast for three nights of the month, then in her book that put him twenty-eight days ahead of his fellows. And the church ladies could gossip all they liked.