He met the old woman by the river. She knelt by the water, beating bloody clothes against the rocks. She’d wring out the fabric, dripping streams of bright blood into the water.
He’d seen her before. Many times. But he’d never had the nerve to approach her. As dusk settled, he came closer.
The old woman kept her back to him as she hunched over the water. Her long black hair kept him from seeing her face, but her dirty gown clung to her bones and her hands were withered and claw-like.
“So you finally come to talk,” she said. “I didn’t know if you ever would.”
“My mother’s dying,” he said.
The woman laughed coldly. “I know.”
“They say the old woman of the river–you–know the secrets of life and death.”
“They are not secrets you want to know, boy.”… Read the rest “Stains”