Mandie Morin: A Short Story

Mandie Morin Out of shape and out of breath, I stumbled through the overgrown grass. The trail I was struggling with never seemed to tire me as a child. Justifiably, I didn’t work twelve hours a day at an office job at nine years old. With pebbles in my shoes, I was headed to my late Uncle Jeff’s camp. I spent all of my childhood summers splashing in the river, painting several pictures of trees, and being eaten by mosquitos at that camp. Aside from my wedding, I hold those memories most dear to me. Although the camp had given me feelings of nostalgia, I was on that hike to say goodbye. With my uncle’s passing, he left me the keys and the ownership of the cabin. As much as I hated the idea of selling it, I hated my job even more.

I wondered how my realtor, Anita, would react when she meets me here with the potential buyers. It would be in her best interest to take my advice about leaving her heels in the closet for this hike. Even though I probably should have helped her here personally, I wanted a couple hours to myself. When the trees began to thin out, I saw the cabin in the distance. It was a relatively small cabin, built strong with Douglas fir. It had been roughly fifteen years since I had been here last and aside from the paint chipped door, the camp had seemingly aged well. Uncle Jeff would have been impressed with the place. As I fumbled through my pockets to find the key, I grasped the doorknob and to my surprise, it was already unlocked. Although the area was sparsely populated, the idea of unlocked doors made me unsettled. I pushed open the door and an unfamiliar figure greeted my eyes. I screamed and lost my balance, which caused me to fall into the door frame. From there, I dropped to the

You knew him?” I asked. “He was such a kind soul, I am sorry for your loss, dear. Of course I knew him, he was the one who let me stay here.” She replied. “In that case, I’m not going to call the cops. However, this is my cabin now and my realtor is on her way over here to sell it. I’ll allow you a couple days to get your stuff together and then you’ll need to leave.” I said and then sat on the couch opposite to the chair she was knitting in. She nodded her head, picked her knitting needles back up, and didn’t say another word. Looking around the room, it was clear to me that Lucille did not have many items to collect. Everything I saw has been here since years before her arrival, including a quilt my grandmother created, which draped over the chair Lucille was sitting on. Adjacent to the fire place, sat a rickety coffee table with a tea kettle resting on top. It’s interesting how the people change, but the places don’t.
I peered at my phone and noticed a missed call from Anita. I presumed that she called for directions, but the voicemail she left informed me that the potential buyers rescheduled for tomorrow. I couldn’t leave tonight and then come back in the morning for two reasons. The first being that I did not trust this mystery woman and I didn’t know if she would assume the role of a squatter. Secondly, I did not have the energy to take an extra hike, which left me with the only option of staying the