By Pamela Love
Nan and I were at the hives when the stranger stopped by. “Elias Carver, your new neighbor.” He tipped his hat and nodded toward the gray house on the hill. “Belonged to my late uncle. We weren’t close. I only got word a few months ago the old place’s been empty for years. Now I’m here to settle down.”
“Empty?” I said.
“Indeed it’s not empty, sir.” My wife sighed as she watched worker bees hustling out a drone. He crawled onto her finger. “Best leave while you can. That house was taken a long time past, just after your uncle died—or maybe before.”
Carver blinked, looking confused.
“It’s possessed,” said Nan. “Those living there won’t welcome you.”
“Squatters?” The man shook his fist at the house. “I’ll have the law on them.”
I stiffened. “Human law’s got no hold on those inside. It’s the little folk. They’ve made that house their own. If you try to take it back—”
Nan grabbed my arm. “Hush, Hiram! The little folk don’t like being talked about. You know that.”
Carver cocked his head back, letting loose a chortle something like a rooster’s crow.
My stomach clenched. Laughing about them is worse than talking. “I was there when the little folk took something my uncle Saul said the wrong way. Eight’s too young to see what they done to him. Fifty-eight’s too old to still have that sight of him in my mind. But there it is.”
Carver stopped laughing. “I’ll be careful.”
Nan and I hoped “careful” meant he’d leave town. Instead, the next morning he trundled a wheelbarrow past our house. It held a rusty hoe, a block of salt, and a bowl I’d bet anything was full of milk.
Plain to see he hadn’t heeded our warning, and certainly hadn’t understood it. As if our little folk would fear iron or drink milk! Carver looked child-innocent, pushing that pile of superstitious nonsense up the drive to the house he thought was his. Should I catch him? Make him turn back?
I took a step, then stopped. I had a duty to my wife, didn’t I? If the little folk thought I was meddling in their business, what would become of Nan? The two of us were getting on in age. We needed each other.
I turned back to my work. Nan had pointed out the beginnings of a new wasp’s nest over the front door, and I was getting ready to take care of it when she came from the hives. She ain’t run like that in years. “Hiram!”
I clambered down the ladder as quick as I could.
“It’s that Carver fellow. He got into the house. It’s theirs, Hiram.” Her hands on mine were trembling.
“I know. Won’t be inside long, I expect.” I snorted. “They can take care of themselves.”
Nan gasped. “You saw—Hiram, why didn’t you stop him? They don’t want him there. They told me. You’ve got to get him out.”
I’ve never seen her so worked up.
Well, I felt an awful coward at the thought. Nan and I have always lived peaceable with all the little folk, doing what they told us. This was different. I didn’t want to be among a bunch of riled up—but if I didn’t, they’d likely think we were being disobedient. I started sweating at the thought.
Muttering to myself about fools who did as they pleased without considering their neighbors, I hustled on over. Should I knock? After all, they’d bidden me to come, and they don’t like noise, except for their own. But I didn’t want to seem disrespectful. Finally, I cleared my throat and kind of slipped inside, opening the door as little as I could.
I took off my cap and bowed all around. Have to show yourself extra respectful around royalty. What if the king and queen were watching me?
Carver was sprawled out on the floor, his head on the first step of what was left of the staircase before the little folk took the house. Grabbing him by the shoulders, I hauled him outside, down the steps, and past the gate, not being any too careful about it, neither. If ever a man needed sense shaken into him…
After I’d shut the gate behind us, Carver’s eyelids fluttered open. “What were they? I didn’t see them. I had milk to appease brownies, iron for elves—”
Well, the soulless ones don’t like being gossiped about. And they always know. They’d spared one life today; I wouldn’t chance my own hoping they’d stay merciful. “Forget the house, Carver. Why don’t you come with me, maybe have a cup of tea before you head on out of town?” He got to his feet, and I helped him stagger down the path.
I felt the termites’ eyes following us until we were out of their sight. The bees took up the watch from every blossom along the road until we got to my house. Nan wouldn’t want him there, but we don’t get everything we want in this life. Carver surely didn’t. And I guessed she’d be too busy caring for that drone bee to fret much.
The wasps were singing as we climbed the porch steps. I reminded myself to help build their nest after I had Carver indoors.
The little folk don’t like to be kept waiting.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
the durability of superstitions! very well done.
Thanks for the compliment!
All the little clues were there, buzzing around the reader until the stinging twist.
Great mysterious story!
WHOAH.
Did not see that coming… Nice job!
I was expecting the “little folk” to be fairies. It took me by surprise to learn that they were insects. Good work.
Well wasn’t expecting that! I thought they were fairies. Great story!