In Her Arms

by Marinda Kotze

The sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows around Mrs. Thurber’s leaf-covered house. From the street, the wooden house looked like it was at least ten years behind on maintenance.

Mrs. Thurber didn’t come out when Jason parked his Buick in her grassed-over driveway. He walked up the sagging steps to the porch.

What the hell have I gotten myself into?

Before he could knock on the door, the handle turned, and the door creaked open.

“Why, hello there, my dear. Come on in, come on in.” Mrs. Thurber’s voice was raspy and soft.

Jason estimated her to be in her eighties, given her fine white hair that was carefully made up to hide some bald spots. She was severely overweight and wore a sleeveless floral dress that was slightly torn at the seams. Her eyes had a milky color to them, which made Jason wonder how well she could see.

She held the door open for Jason with a shy smile. As he stepped inside, she grabbed him with both arms and gave him an enveloping, slightly suffocating, hug.

“It is so nice to finally meet you!”

She held onto him for a few moments, before releasing him from her grip.

“Likewise, Mrs. Thurber,” Jason replied, straightening his shirt. “Thank you for allowing me to board here on such short notice.”

“Oh, it’s nothing! There’s always room in my house—and please, call me Margery.”

The first thing that stood out to Jason about the interior of the house was how dark it was. All the windows were closed, and the curtains pulled shut. The glow of a television screen that sat on a small table in the corner of the living room was the only source of light. A rerun of a courtroom drama from the early ’90s was playing on it. There was also a smell—something chemical—akin to the scent of mothballs, but with a hint of something faintly sour.

“I don’t like bright lights. It hurts my eyes. I get terrible migraines, from the lights,” Mrs. Thurber said and waved at the switched-off lamp and chandelier. “Your room is through here. Let me show you.” She led him down the narrow hallway. “You’ll have to excuse the mess. The last tenant left in a hurry. The old rascal didn’t even pack his things.” She stepped aside to let Jason into the room.

The room was just as dark as the rest of the house, but Jason could see enough thanks to a shaft of light from a slightly open curtain. The previous tenant’s belongings still cluttered the space—a half-open yellow suitcase, a closet full of clothes, and toiletries left by the sink in the ensuite bathroom. Dust motes swirled in the dim light.

“While you unpack, I’ll cook us something nice. What do you say?”

Mrs. Thurber didn’t wait for an answer and shuffled back to the front of the house, leaving Jason amongst Mr. Previous Tenant’s belongings.

Well, at least the rent is cheap, and it’s close to work.

Dinner was soup, pork stew with beans, and stories from Mrs. Thurber’s nursing days in a military hospital. She swung her flabby arms through the air as she told story after story about amputations gone wrong and anesthesia mishaps.

“…I had to hold the patient down like this. The doctors always liked it when I assisted. They said I was the strongest nurse in the hospital.” She grinned proudly.

Jason smiled politely. She certainly has big arms, Jason thought, trying not to stare.

He finished off his soup with one final gulp and offered to clean up, but she shooed him off. “Get your rest, dear. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He barely slept. Somewhere in the early hours of the morning, he woke up to a soft but incessant rhythmic thump-thump-thump from somewhere in the house. The static and low murmurs of voices from the television in the living room continued in the background.

When his alarm woke him at 6 AM, he got himself ready and was out the door by 6:45 AM. The house was quiet, save for the television, now playing an old episode of Murder, She Wrote.

That evening, when Jason returned from work, his room was different. The previous tenant’s belongings—clothes, books, even the half-empty shampoo bottle in the shower—were gone. The closet stood empty, and the drawers were freshly wiped clean. Jason’s black suitcase lay on the neatened bed.

Mrs. Thurber’s been busy. Nice, but also a bit… of an invasion of privacy? But I guess that’s what you get when you pay next to nothing for a room in an old lady’s house.

Jason peered down the hallway. Mrs. Thurber’s bedroom door was closed.

Thud… thud… thud…

Jason heard a steady series of knocks. It sounded like it was coming from under the house.

What the hell is that?

Jason passed by the living room. The television was still on, this time playing an old episode of Survivor—the contestants were fighting for their lives in an immunity challenge. Jason flicked the television off with the remote. He needed to know where the noise was coming from. It wasn’t the television. It wasn’t the house’s old pipes. It wasn’t tree branches on the roof either.

Jason walked out the front door.

The thuds stopped.

Jason walked around the house, careful to dodge the prickly thistles that had reclaimed the backyard.

Then he saw it.

The storm cellar doors were wide open.

Jason crept closer. A cool breeze cut through his jacket. Then the stench followed—something akin to wet, musty earth and iron.

Thud.

Jason searched his pockets for his phone.

Thud.

He grabbed hold of the phone and activated its flashlight.

Thud.

He took a deep breath, stepped onto the first step of the cellar, and pointed it into the darkness.

Thump.

Blackened bottles lined the shelves against the cellar walls.

Thump.

The flashlight beam caught a sudden movement at the back of the cellar. Mrs. Thurber stood over a concrete worktable in the corner. Her gnarled hands gripped an axe.

Thud.

As the axe came down, a bloodied leg split open, and a chunk of it fell to the floor.

The flashlight flickered as Jason jerked back.

A yellow suitcase lay open at Mrs. Thurber’s feet, packed with bloodied clothes.

Mrs. Thurber looked up. Her milky eyes glistened in the flashlight’s beam.

“Ah, there you are, dear!” She smiled and wiped her bloodied hands on her floral dress.

“I was just making some room for you.”

© Marinda Kotze, 2025

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