Poor Dead Solomon

The cabin in the woods had been abandoned for years, but one night, a candle burned in the window. A passerby might have heard a faint but familiar tune wafting from an open window, Patsy Cline falling to pieces. They might have smelled strong coffee in the cool night; they might have even seen the shadow of Beverly Berry dancing all by herself in the shadow of that candle, one hand draped mid-air, the other resting softly on her swaying hip.

But nobody just passed by out here in the thick woods on the north end of Lake Saint Catherine, especially not in those eerily quiet hours just before dawn. Even in the daylight, it wasn't a place one wandered through on purpose; the forest on this side of the lake made people uneasy. They didn't even care much to talk about it. It was just visceral, almost impossible to describe with words. A tickle of dread in their belly. The kids called it creepy. The old-timers called it spooked.

Beverly Berry called it home.

For tonight, anyway. She needed something hot in her belly and a good long nap. Killing Solomon Berry had been hard work.

No, she corrected herself, killing Solomon Berry had been easy. Hoisting his body over the side of the canoe had been hard. She grinned at this thought, shook her head. So clumsy, she thought, as though remembering herself in some small, embarrassing moment, like tripping over a rug in front of everyone.

She rolled her eyes, suddenly annoyed at poor dead Solomon. She had been after him relentlessly about watching his weight. For your health, she would tell him, while sizing him up for the inevitable predicament of disposal. After tonight's events, she was more sure than ever that he had been sneaking donuts on the way to work.

Poor dead Solomon.

He had told her about this cabin early in their courtship, while she was delicately picking him for information on his assets. It was his Uncle Gary's until Uncle Gary died in his cot and was found four months later. So, no, not a lot of passerby out here.

Uncle Gary left the cabin to Solomon, who had not been keen on keeping it up over the years, but Beverly remembered it for the running tally she kept in her mind of her betrothed's assets. She knew his net worth down to the coins in his pocket. It wasn't a fortune, but it was easy. Solomon was a push-over, ripe for exploitation by monsters like Beverly Berry, aka Beverly Blanchard, aka Blanche Davis, aka Bev Bouchard, and maybe more. Beverly was sure she had forgotten a few.

Poor dead Solomon was one of the sweeter ones, she thought, without an ounce of remorse. Pathetic, actually, she thought, pouring her third cup of coffee and tapping her toes to the music coming from the little radio that she and Solomon liked to take fishing with them. I was so mean to him, and he still loved me. She shook her head back and forth disdainfully.

He loved her so much that when she said she wanted to pack some hot cocoa and sandwiches and go night fishing in the lake by his uncle's cabin, he agreed, though reluctantly and suspiciously; this was not typical for his wolverine of a wife, and he had never had a good feeling about Uncle Gary's cabin. But she had noticed a canoe, she said coyly, and thought it might be romantic. Such was his love for her that he went to gather their fishing supplies while she crushed enough sleeping pills into his cocoa to put him out nicely and in no time.

Thinking about this made Beverly sleepy. She had the blanket she had brought along for her romantic picnic on the lake with Solomon, and she spread it across the dusty, creaky old floorboards. With the deep sigh of a woman who'd done a hard day's work, she turned the radio off, blew out the candle and stared into the darkness, not quite ready to close her eyes.

Her thoughts turned back to the canoe. She had wanted to play it cool and act concerned, but her true nature was irrepressible. The moment Solomon realized something wasn't right and looked at her with wide, confused eyes, Beverly let him know exactly what was happening, and unleashed every unkindness she had inside of her. As she wrestled his limp body over the edge of Uncle Gary's canoe, he managed to weakly lay a hand against her cheek and nod his head slightly, as though in forgiveness.

“Oh my God,” she whispered loudly into the dark stillness, remembering that nod with disgust. “He still loved me. Chump. Unbeliev-”

Beverly caught and held her breath. She had heard a branch snap, she was sure of it. She knew the forest was full of nocturnal creatures, but this was right outside the cabin door.

“Get out of here!” she hissed, pulling her legs up underneath her.

Snap, right outside the door. Every muscle in her body tensed.

Tap. Silence. Tap. Tap. More silence, then TAPTAPTAPTAPTAP.

Beverly knew she had nowhere to go. The only weapon she had was her meanness, and she told herself that she would tear right through whatever was on the other side of that door.

“Who's there?!!” she shrieked into the dark cabin, she could never have been ready for the answer she got.

“It's Solomon.”

His voice was different; deep, slow, soggy. The door swung wider, wide enough to give Beverly a sliver of moonlight to see for herself. Solomon did not crawl from that lake alive in a miracle of survival. This Solomon was lifeless, bloated; he stood in a puddle of dark water, one hand clutching some Black-eyed Susans that Beverly had noticed earlier on the trail from the lake, the other hand clutching the oar she had used to make good and sure he drowned.

“And Beverly,” he gurgled, water streaming from his mouth and nose, “I still love you.”

Beverly screamed, but there were no passersby to hear her, not out here in these dark woods, not in these eerily quiet hours before dawn.