The House on Durham Road  

By Regina Williams

Moonlight bathed the lone pine tree on the hill in a soft glow. Lucinda Wilkerson stared at it through the window and wondered if it was as lonely and bereft as she felt tonight. She came to this house on Durham Road, not knowing what to expect, but it was worse than anything she’d ever imagined.

She made no friends in the out-of-the-way place where people looked at her with suspicious minds, whispered words behind her back that were meant to be heard. And with willful determination, they ignored the newcomer—the outsider.

Darkness closed in around the house, isolating it even more. Off the main road five hundred yards, she was as alone as any human being could be with neighbors just down the way. No one would come should she need help. No one would care.

Most of the time, she didn’t let it bother her. But on nights like this when the silence overpowered the small house, it would have been nice to offer coffee in exchange for friendly conversation.

Her hands ached for her etching tools. Tonight would be one of those nights when demons controlled her and the images left on soft metal would horrify her in the morning. She watched in fascination as her fingers created the figure of a naked, well-endowed man. The dog followed, as always, perfect in its adoration to its master.

These images were disturbing, but she refused to let her mind dwell on what they might mean. She was afraid she would figure it out and then what would she do? She positioned the etching among a hundred more lined up against the living room wall.

In bed, clutching her grandmother’s shawl against her cheek, she let the tears flow. What kind of monsters lived within her to create such awful things? What had happened to the normal life she’d once known, where silks and satins caressed her body on a daily basis—a life she remembered quite clearly, but could not figure out how she’d wound up here.

These days, men’s baggy overalls covered her, along with work boots and too-large cotton shirts and a well-used sweaty straw hat was forever perched on her head. The knife attached to her belt gave some comfort, but she didn’t understand the terror that gripped her when she thought of leaving it behind. Her appearance gave the community fodder for gossip and she’d heard it all.

At those times, she wanted to scream at them, to tell them she didn’t know why she was here anymore than they did. That her existence on Durham Road was as much a mystery to her as to them.

She didn’t believe for a moment she was crazy, but then, the really nutty ones never thought that, did they? She threw back the shawl and swung her legs over the edge of the bed. The shadows crept in, oozing under and through the glass panes of the sliding glass door that opened into the yard. There was no deck, no fancy patio furniture, just cool grass beneath her feet as she stepped outside.

Warm air caressed her face and she lifted it to the heavens. Usually, the stars in the inky black sky soothed her, but tonight she could still feel the edge of Tartarus, the dungeons below Hades creeping upward to snare her with slimy tentacles and drag her down.

She knew what caused the tightening in her chest and the dread building in her body. And why sleep avoided her tonight. She trailed fingers down the ivy growing in abundance on the side of the house—the soft, satiny leaves doing what the stars had failed.

Tomorrow she must brave the stares and covert glances of a community who wanted her gone. Shopping day always filled her with trepidation. Her hand still on the ivy, she closed her eyes and thought of red, red flowers lying gently against her palm.

The next morning was as bad as she’d known it would be. Mother’s called their children to them when they spotted the rusty old pickup she drove. Holding the children close, they kept a wary eye on her to make sure the crazy lady didn’t get too close.

Inside the store, she stopped to let her eyes adjust to the dim interior. Two women across the store stared at her, whispering behind work-worn hands. As always, she ignored them, pretending they didn’t exist.

“Howdy, Ms. Wilkerson,” Peter, the store owner gave her a tentative smile. He didn’t fool her. He was as bad or worse than the others—being nice to her only because of the money she spent here.

Without acknowledging him, she handed him a list and waited while he filled her order. He knew as well as she did, the customers didn’t like it when she roamed the aisles.

“Will that be all today?”

She was about to agree, that yes, that was all, when she spotted something on the far counter.

Peter followed her gaze. “You interested in this, Ms. Wilkerson?” he asked, pointing to the rectangular box.

At her nod, he picked it up and brought it to her. “Never would’ve thought you’d like something like this.” She glanced up at him, her expression conveying her disgust. He lowered his eyes. “Sorry. I didn’t mean nothing…”

“I’ll take it,” she said, her fingers wrapping around the colorful cardboard box. She paid for her purchases, shoved the change deep into her overalls pocket, and struggled out the door with her heavy load. No one offered to open the door for her, nor did anyone ask if she needed help.

Once she’d put the groceries away, she studied the box, afraid to touch it. Staring at it a long time, she couldn’t stand it any longer, and picked it up and opened it. Inside, rows of colors stared back at her. She used to paint exotic flowers filled with texture and light. Could she do it again, or would she be doomed to carve out those horrible figures for the rest of her life?

If she could paint like that again, her depression might lift like the sun dissipating the mist that clung to the valley floor each morning. She spread the paints on the kitchen table, retrieved a blank canvas hidden behind the couch and with shaking hands, reached for the paint brush.

The smell and feel of the oil paints seemed to soothe her soul, unlike the frantic urgency of the etchings. The colors flowed from one side of the canvas to the other; magnificent flowers in Technicolor reached out and cradled her in their softness and scent and she painted one after another.

No one ever knew for sure what happened to Lucinda Wilkerson. When she hadn’t been seen for awhile, Peter went to check on her. He found her lying at the front door in a pool of blood, her knife just out of reach.

For months the house sat empty, but someone did rent it eventually, ignorant of its past. The bloodstains on the carpet were innocently washed away without ever knowing that Lucinda had occupied these rooms for awhile.

Lucinda is still talked about twenty years later by a community that never knew her or wanted her. The house on Durham Road, ringed in isolation by friendless hills, still stands, and other women have lived in and then left its lonely rooms.

Alone, Lucinda had placed her demons across sheets of tin, but strove to paint another dream, a flower fantasy of yearning and forgetting. Someone or maybe it was something, refused to let her.

But all the women, who came later with secrets of their own, have taken vibrant oils to canvas and filled their space with Lucinda’s flowers.