The Story of Robert A. Cahill’s Iron Box

As recorded by Maggie Henith

I’m a busybody … or so I’ve heard.  You can’t really keep that understanding a secret from the neighborhood busybody now can you?  

Over the years there has only been one story I wish my ears never heard.  Ironically, it is also the one story that has never crossed my lips.  I was already the busybody;  I was determined not to be the town lunatic.  

The doctors say I’m really dying this time.  I have decided to write the story of the Cahills down.  Maybe the tale will help explain why the house sits empty to this very day. 

…

Time is funny.  Sometimes minutes seem like hours and a life time passes in the blink of an eye.  I cannot remember if it was seconds or closer to an hour until she bolted again from the house.  Suddenly, she was there, white as summer linen, racing toward my porch in the still twilight.

Marie’s mouth moved rapidly but no words came out.

“Marie!” I exclaimed, chills creeping up my arms despite the warm evening. “What?  What’s happened?”

She seemed almost outside of her mind and ready to jump out of her skin.  I forced her into a chair and tried to get her to drink some of my lemonade.

“R- r-r-r-o-o…”

“What, Marie?” I asked frantically.  “You must speak so I can help.”

I will never forget the horror in Marie’s eyes as she told me in broken sentences of the days leading up to her husband’s death and of her deception. 

… Continued next time!