The Last House Before the Woods

The Whitfield place sat where the gravel road quit and the woods took over.

Nobody built that far out anymore. No reason to. No view. No electricity. Nothing but old growth trees and the sound of your own front door slamming too loud in the quiet.

But once every October, somebody mowed that yard.

Lights came on at dusk. Always the same two windows. Never the porch.

The mailbox still said WHITFIELD, even though everyone knew old man Whitfield had been dead nineteen years, and his only son left for Birmingham and never once came back, not even for the funeral.

Hunters started avoiding that patch of woods. Said the dogs wouldn't go near it.

My brother, who wasn’t given to fright, drove out to the Whitfield place on a dare. Said he didn’t see a soul, but the grass was cut so clean you could’ve eaten off it.

He never went back. When I asked why, all he said was: “Some yards don’t need a man to keep ’em tidy. That’s what bothered me.”