The Devil's Beating His Wife by Siobhán Béabhar Read Free Book Online Page A

place in ages. The muscle in my damaged thigh began to clench with impatience. If I was wise, I would walk into town, stop at Dean Patrick's drug store, and pick me up a cane. But me and wisdom usually failed to have a meeting of the minds.
    Thorny branches tore into my skin as I forced my way through the overgrown bushes that obstructed the lane. When I stepped on a brittle branch, a flock of crows flew from the nearby trees. A strange silence descended around me.
    Old Man Colsen had been notorious for chasing people away from his land. He had been a loner, tucked away in the small farmhouse. For a long time, people had assumed he was mean yet harmless. It wasn't until his name became associated with a string of murders that the townsfolk realized what sort of evil lingered on this land.
    "I could have sworn this house was closer to the road," I mumbled to nobody. My hackles rose the moment the house came into view. As I grew closer to the house, feelings of loneliness and despair threatened to overwhelm me. The house, on the other hand, seemed to seethe with rage. The front windows were all boarded up. The porch door hung haphazardly off its hinges, while the screen had a long slash that allowed half of the fabric to wave with the wind. The white paint was fading away, leaving a yellowish pallor underneath. Wind blew strong against the shabby foundation, creating a wheezing sound as the air pushed through the cracks.
    It was irresistible. I climbed the steps to the screened front porch. The neglected wood moaned under my weight. As I pulled the twisted door open wide enough for me to enter, the hinges screamed with outrage.
    "Hello?" I didn't know why I called out, but it seemed the polite thing to do.
    My stiff leg felt like lead as I stepped onto the porch. Dragging my leg across the rotting wood, I placed my hand on the doorknob and raised my hand to knock. The staccato sound bounced from wall to wall in the abandoned house.
    I entered the living area and craned my neck to peer throughout the house. The interior was even worse than the weather-beaten exterior. The gray walls had exposed areas of plaster. The ceiling was bubbled and bloated from water damage. The wooden floorboards were all rotted through, leaving holes that exposed the foundation below.
    Someone had left behind an old studio couch. I could understand why. Those things were heavy and awkward to move. An old side table sat in the middle of the room. At one time, the floral wallpaper probably had been a lovely touch, but now it was faded and peeling from whole sections of the wall.
    To the right of the living room was a small dining room with a large table and three chairs. A big, hideous mirror hung on the wall, reflecting the table and my disheveled appearance. The tables, chairs, and couch were cheap and easily replaceable items, but the ugly mirror was probably worth a buck or two. I wondered why it had been left behind.
    Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a slight movement that resurrected my feelings of unease. My heart pounded in my chest, and I feared being overcome with another episode. I entered the kitchen, which was completely bare of any appliances or furniture. Only a few cabinets along the wall and the kitchen sink remained.
    Another movement. This time I caught the source. It was a curtain hanging from the small kitchen window. Someone had left it open, allowing air to flutter against the beige cloth.
    Placing my hands on the top of the window, I tried to push it closed. The wood had long ago warped, making it difficult to shut. As I leaned against the sink and pressed down, I caught a whiff of sweet honeysuckle.
    Something about the smell triggered my imagination. In my mind, I tore down the old, decrepit farmhouse and constructed a well-loved and well-maintained home brimming with warmth and people. Floral curtains hung in the windows and family portraits lined the walls. I could picture myself standing at the window, listening to the