The Woman I Helped at the Grocery Store Gave Me a Strange Warning About My Husband

It became quiet, empty, and somehow anxious in my soul, though I did not know why. The old woman’s words surfaced in my memory again, clear and persistent.

“Do not touch the snow.”

I shook my head, trying to chase these thoughts away. It was foolishness and old folk superstition.

Something held me back from dressing warmly and going out to shovel the yard as Vernon had ordered. Fatigue crashed down all at once like a sack of sand on my shoulders.

The day had been long and exhausting. My legs buzzed and my back ached from housework.

The blizzard was raging so hard that everything would just be covered again by morning anyway. What was the point of suffering now?

I decided I would not go out into this bitter freeze to drag a shovel around. I would deal with it in the morning if it was really necessary.

Vernon was already far away. He would not see and would not know.

If anything, I would blame the blizzard and say it was pointless to clean in such weather. I went upstairs to the bedroom and changed into an old warm nightgown and a soft robe.

I lay down on the bed with a tattered book I had started reading a week ago. But I could not read; the letters swam before my eyes.

My thoughts tangled, returning again and again to the strange meeting in the store. Who was that mysterious old woman?

Why did she say exactly that about the snow and about the yard? And why did she look so persistently, so seriously, and so piercingly into my eyes as if warning of something terrible and inevitable?

Outside the window, the wind continued to howl. The house creaked under strong gusts.

I got up, walked to the bedroom window, and looked out. The yard was drowning in pitch darkness.

Only the weak yellowish light of the single lamp by the gate snatched swirling thick snowflakes from the gloom. The path had completely disappeared under a thick white blanket.

The gate, the porch, the rose bushes—everything was buried beyond recognition. A strange anxious feeling seized me, tightening my chest as if something absolutely had to happen this night.

Something important, fateful, and something that could not be brushed aside was coming. I returned to the bed and lay down, pulling the warm blanket up to my chin.

I did not want to sleep at all despite the fatigue. I lay there listening to the howling of the winter wind outside the window and simply could not get rid of the growing anxiety squeezing my heart.

The old clock on the nightstand ticked monotonously, showing eleven at night. Vernon was probably already far away from here, speeding along the snowy night highway and listening to the radio.

He would be drinking strong coffee from a thermos and thinking about his own things. What did he even think about lately, I wondered?

We had barely spoken in recent months and years. He would come home silently, sleep off the road, eat something without looking, pack up again, and leave.

We lived like complete strangers under one roof, connected only by a marriage license. When exactly had this happened?

I sorted through the memories of the last years of our life together. Maybe it all started after we realized we could not have children.

But that was so long ago, at the very beginning of our marriage, more than thirty years back. Back then, Vernon seemed to comfort me and said the right words.

He said that we would live well just the two of us and that happiness was not just in children. Or maybe it was my serious illness three years ago, the surgery, and the long painful recovery.

Vernon had become especially distant then, and cold. It was as if I had become a burden to him, or he was simply tired of me.

Maybe he was tired of our monotonous life, of this old house, and of my aging face. I closed my eyes, trying to chase away the heavy pressing thoughts.

Tomorrow would be a new day. Maybe all of this just seemed this way because of exhaustion and loneliness.

It was winter blues, that is all. I needed to pull myself together and do something useful.

When Vernon returned in a week, I would cook something special and something delicious. We would sit down and talk normally, heart-to-heart.

We had not really talked in a long time. Sleep came in snatches, restless and anxious.

I would fall into a fitful doze then wake up sharply from especially strong gusts of wind or from the creaking of window frames. I dreamed of that old woman from the store.

I saw her piercing all-seeing eyes and felt her dry gripping fingers on my sleeve.

“Do not touch the snow,”

she repeated in the dream again and again like a spell.

The Secrets Left in the Snow

I woke up early, while it was still completely dark. I looked with sleepy eyes at the clock; it was the beginning of six o’clock in the morning.

Outside the window, it was just starting to lighten a tiny bit. The blizzard had finally stopped completely.

The silence was somehow special, dense and ringing. I got up, threw a warm knitted robe over my shoulders, and went down to the kitchen.

I mechanically put the kettle on the stove and lit the burner. I walked to the window and froze, not believing my eyes.

The yard was entirely covered in untouched smooth snow, absolutely white. But from the gate to the house, and to the windows of the first floor, led clear, very deep footprints.

They were men’s footprints from heavy large boots. They were definitely not Vernon’s.

I knew his shoes, his size, and his walk perfectly well. These were completely strange tracks.

Someone had come to our house at night and walked around the yard. They had come close to the windows while I remained completely alone.

I stood by the window, clutching the windowsill with whitened fingers. My heart pounded so hard and fast that it seemed it was about to jump out of my chest.

I could not tear my gaze away from the tracks, trying to understand and to comprehend what was happening. Deep clear prints of heavy boots led from the very gate straight to the house.

They methodically circled it on two sides, stopping at every window of the ground floor. It was as if someone were carefully studying the house.

Someone had walked around my house at night while I slept completely alone and defenseless. My hands trembled slightly.

I stepped back from the window, pressing my palm to my mouth to hold back a frightened sob fighting to get out. Breathing became difficult.

I needed to calm down, pull myself together, and think clearly. Maybe it was neighbors for some reason?

No, that was impossible. The neighbors on the left, the elderly Petersons, were both over seventy.

Such deep heavy tracks were definitely not theirs. The lot on the right had been empty for a year; the owners had moved to the city long ago and the house was closed up.

Across the street lived only Mrs. Higgins. But why would an elderly woman walk around a stranger’s yard in a blizzard at night?

I forced myself to walk closer to the glass, peering at the tracks more carefully. They did not go chaotically or disorderly, but very purposefully and thoughtfully.

They went from the gate straight to the living room windows, then neatly along the wall to the kitchen windows. They continued to the back of the house where the pantry and the basement entrance were.

It was as if someone were methodically walking the perimeter of the house, carefully looking into every window. They were studying something, watching, and checking.

A cold chill ran down my spine and goosebumps covered my skin. Were they burglars preparing and looking for what to steal?

But they took nothing. They did not even try to break in.

The gate was closed on a simple latch. The lock was intact and unharmed.

The tracks led only from the gate into the yard and back. That meant the person somehow opened it, walked through calmly, circled the house, and then just as calmly closed the gate and left without rushing.

The kettle on the stove whistled piercingly, and I shuddered with my whole body at the sudden sharp sound. I turned off the gas with a trembling hand, but did not even think about brewing tea.

I had to do something urgently. I had to make a decision and call the police.

But what exactly should I say? That at night someone strange walked around the yard but stole absolutely nothing, broke nothing, and smashed nothing?

I remembered our community officer, Gareth Pernell. I had known him for many years, ever since he came to work in this precinct as a very young man.

Now he was over fifty, but he still worked diligently. He was known as a conscientious, responsive man you could turn to.

I could definitely call him. I quickly went up to the bedroom and dressed hurriedly, pulling on whatever came to hand: warm sweatpants and a thick wool sweater.

I swapped my slippers for warm winter boots. I took out my cell phone and found the officer’s number in my old contacts.

My fingers were still trembling nastily as I dialed the number.

“Officer Pernell, this is Vance from Chestnut Street, House 17.”

“Please excuse me for calling so early, but I have a very strange situation here.”

“Good morning, Mrs. Vance,”

the officer’s familiar calm, slightly raspy voice came through.

“What happened?”

“Last night someone came to my house. They walked around the yard and left tracks in the snow. I was home alone; my husband left for a long haul and I am very… I got really scared.”

“I see. Did anything go missing? Did they break the door? Are the windows intact?”

“No, everything seems whole and in place, but the tracks… they lead right up to the windows from all sides as if someone was purposely peeking inside or looking for something specific.”

Gareth Pernell was silent for a few seconds on the other end of the line, thinking.

“All right. I will come over right now. Twenty, thirty minutes max.”

“Do not go out of the house for now. Do not trample the tracks under any circumstances and check all windows and doors thoroughly. Make sure everything is securely locked.”

“Thank you so much,”

I exhaled with relief.

“I will wait for you.”