Mrs Hudgens was an old woman who lived by herself in the middle of several farms, including her own. Her husband had died many years ago and her children had grown up and stopped visiting.
I am the only person who visits her anymore, just as a friend. Until just the other day.
It had been several months since I visited her house. I pulled up her driveway and I saw her. Or what was left of her.
She was sitting on her rocking chair on the porch, her bony fingers fusing with the wooden arm rests. Her face was shrivelled and brown as her decaying skin stretched across her skull.
She sat there, looking at me with eyeless sockets. I imeditly dialled 911 and reported her body.
I should have stuck around. I should have waited for the ambulance to arrive and cart off her body, but something inside me screamed to run. To run as hide very far away.
So I got in my car and drove off.
It wasn't until I got home that I realised what was bugging me. That whole time. The rocking chair. The rocking chair was still moving.