We follow the path of toppled corn stalks until we reach the barn behind our neighbor’s farmhouse.
“I told you it was that idiot Bill! No more excuses. He has to pay up!” my wife rants.
“He just lost his wife.” I remind her.
“They hated each other!”
I shush her and slowly approach the barn doors, unsure if the rustling I hear are my own feet.
She huffs then steps in front of me and bangs on the door.
After more rustling—definitely from inside—Bill appears, a dirty shovel over his shoulder and blood stains on his overalls.
Written for Friday Fictioneers. It’s been a while since I joined one of these. I hope you enjoyed. 🙂