The Mysterious Ms. Gildredge

I see a curtain drop as I glance at the old house at 12 Elm Trail. The house itself is showing its age, with drooping gutters full of fledgling trees, peeling paint, and a pocketed, mildew stricken front porch. It is the neighborhood eyesore, and yet it is owned outright and the taxes get paid promptly, so there is nothing for the local government to do. One can only imagine the state of the house’s exterior is a mirror to the resident inside, but old lady Gildredge has not been seen or heard from by anyone in the neighborhood since her husband passed 11 years ago. Her nephew comes once a week to delivery groceries and other odds and ends and take out the trash. He is a persnickety fellow from the city and can’t be bothered to indulge small town gossip.

             So, instead, on evenings such as this, with the full strawberry moon poking out from the wispy clouds, turning them pink as cotton candy, I spend my time imagining what may go on behind the curtains. This evening’s imaginings include some quite dramatic stories, which play out in my head as I enjoy the wafts of the evening breeze.

 Ms. Gildredge is long dead, of natural causes of course, she passed not long after her beloved husband. Upon discovery of her passing the nephew was quite relieved as her death not only absolved his obligation to look after her, she wasn’t a favorite aunt after all, but also provided the exact opportunity he needed. See, the nephew’s daughter recently had taken up with a bad crowd in the city and gotten herself in way over her head. She needed a place to lay low, hiding from both law enforcement and her so-called friends. So, as an answer to his problems, the nephew carefully removed his aunt’s body with the rubbish on one of his weekly trips, and then snuck his own daughter in. He then kept up his regular weekly trips so that anyone tailing him would be none the wiser.

Or perhaps Ms. Gildredge is really an assumed identity. In truth she is a famous actress from Hollywood’s golden era, driven to seclusion by the constant attention and fanfare. She stays in her house as a recluse in order to remain anonymous and hide from the many stalkers who would stake out her house if they could find it. She does escape with the nephew, really a bodyguard, when she has a glitzy Hollywood event to attend or wants to go for a glamourous vacation. On those occasions she has someone else on her payroll to tend to the house and make sure that any passerby sees signs of life such as the curtains moving, the sound of the television, or lights being turned on and off at random intervals.

A branch creaks and shifts in the wind as I look back up at the house. I imagine one final story for Ms. Gildredge. In this fantasy she is a witch. She has been alive for many lifetimes and has lived out many stories. Mr. Gildredge was her most recent in a series of husbands. Now, after his death she is living out her days waiting for the neighbors around her to die off too so she can start once again. She must wait it out because her magic is tied directly to the land she lives on. As long as she stays on that piece of property, she will remain immortal. So, she will remain in the house and then, once anyone who can identify her has passed, she will emerge and begin again. Living out another story to pass her days. The nephew has never seen her either. He is simply hired help, paid through a trust to be delivery person and caretaker to the property. He is paid handsomely for his discretion by an unnamed party.

My thoughts are interrupted by the crunch of tires on gravel. Moments later my eyes are blinded by a bright light. I’m startled by a voice yelling at me to drop to the ground with my hands up. I obey, branches and bark scraping at my bare legs and arms as I do so. The contents of my hands drop and shatter to the ground. I’m angry, those were expensive binoculars, procured with the highest resolution possible at the outdoor store three bus stops away. The officer in front of me does not seem to care.

As I’m lead away from the tree, I glimpse the occupant herself standing on the steps. I overhear her talking to another officer, telling her story. It is one I will hear for myself in front of a judge and jury in the coming months. Ms. Gildredge’s true story will be one of fear. After her husband passed away Ms. Gildredge lived a simple life. She continued to volunteer and visit with friends and family. When walking the grocery store came to be too much her nephew began to help her out once a week, bringing her groceries and doing other tasks that were becoming too much for her to handle. In recent years a new neighbor had moved in next door, working the night shift and keeping late hours, so that Ms. Gildredge never had a chance to meet her, except for the occasional night Ms. Gildredge would get up for a late-night drink of water or bathroom trip and see her standing on the front walk, staring at the house.

The prosecutor presents a case including photo evidence of what he calls a “peeping Tom” in the tree, ridiculous as my name is most definitely not Tom. I try to argue this point to no avail. I’m also confused by the photos, which show an entirely different house and yard. In place of the weeds and overgrown grass are a pristine path and perfectly manicured gardens. The house is perfectly painted with neat, clean shutters and a wraparound porch with cozy, inviting furniture. And yet there is my picture as I sit in the large oak tree in the back yard. They must have altered these pictures to make the house appear clean and upkept, but I can’t figure out what they are trying to hide with this scheme. I will have plenty of time to ponder this and many other intricacies of the case of Ms. Gildredge. Based on the prior cases of Miss Honey and Mrs. Winslow it appears I will be spending a lot of time cooped up on my own.