“No need, Mike,” she called back without turning. “I know my way. Just keep an eye on the Lady for me.”
She disappeared around the corner of the post office, and Mike was left alone. Alone with a statue, a field of weeds, and a feeling he couldn’t shake. He stood in the middle of the lot, looking at the Virgin Mary, and felt the goosebumps return. It was stupid. Completely stupid. A piece of wood can’t change a person, can’t make your heart race. It was just a story, the kind of thing people tell to feel important.
But his hands were still shaking. Mike turned and walked away quickly, hands shoved deep in his pockets. The sun was setting, the air was cooling, and in the distance, someone was splitting wood—the steady thud of an axe echoing through the valley. At home, he splashed cold water on his face, made a pot of coffee, and sat by the window. A normal evening, a normal house, a normal life. But the feeling wouldn’t go away.
It sat right under his ribs, heavy and strange. He remembered the weight of the bag, the smooth wood under his fingers, and that wave of energy when the canvas fell away. He remembered Eleanor’s eyes and her promise that he would do “great things.” He rubbed his face, trying to clear his head. Tomorrow it would be over. He’d go back to the woods, back to his patrol, back to the quiet.
No statues, no mysterious old women. But when he finally lay down and closed his eyes, he could still see the dark face of the statue, looking right through him to a place he was too afraid to look himself. The next week passed in a blur of routine. Mike patrolled the forest, marked timber for thinning, and fixed a fence near the ranger station—the kind of work that didn’t require much thinking. He tried not to think about the statue, though he passed the lot a few times.
It was still there, sitting in the weeds, silent and still. He’d almost convinced himself that the “feeling” was just heat exhaustion. His brain playing tricks. On Saturday, Mike stopped by the general store for bread and coffee. It was the only shop in Oak Creek—cramped, smelling of floor wax and old wood. The clerk, Martha, a woman in her fifties with bright red hair, was leaning over the counter talking to a neighbor.
“I’m telling you, they couldn’t budge it!” Martha said, ringing up a sale. “Billy and his brother went over there last night. They figured they’d haul that statue off to a pawn shop for beer money.” Mike froze by the canned goods, listening. “And?” the neighbor asked. “Nothing,” Martha snorted. “Couldn’t move it an inch. Billy said it felt like it was bolted into the bedrock. They pushed, they pulled—nothing. They got spooked and ran off.”
“Maybe they were just drunk?” the neighbor suggested. “Billy was sober as a judge, I saw him,” Martha countered. “Mike Sullivan and some old lady carried it in, but two grown men can’t lift it? It’s weird, isn’t it?” Mike walked up to the counter and set his items down. Martha went quiet, but her eyes were dancing with curiosity.
“You hear that, Mike?” she asked, scanning his bread. “About your statue.” “It’s not mine,” Mike muttered, pulling out his wallet. “Some lady brought it into town.” “Sure,” Martha nodded, counting out his change. “But the whole town’s going over there now. People are saying that lot feels… different.” Mike took his change, tucked the bread under his arm, and left without another word.
Outside, the air smelled of dust and summer gardens. He started toward his truck, but his feet turned toward the center of town. Curiosity was a powerful thing. When he reached the lot, he stopped dead. The grass around the statue had been neatly trimmed. Someone had come by with a weed-whacker or a scythe, cleared out the brush, and tidied the space. The statue stood on clear ground now, the sunlight hitting it perfectly.
Mike walked the perimeter, wondering who had done it and, more importantly, why. Over the next few days, he watched the lot from a distance, and every time he looked, something had changed. On Tuesday, someone brought an old wooden garden bench and placed it a few feet away. On Wednesday, there were flowers—simple daisies and marigolds in plastic cups. On Thursday, someone had laid down a gravel path from the sidewalk to the statue.
The place was transforming, but Mike never saw who was doing the work. It was as if a ghost were coming by at night to fix up the lot piece by piece. On Friday, heading home from the station, Mike saw his neighbor, Mrs. Gable, sitting on the bench. She was sitting quietly, hands folded in her lap, just looking at the statue. Her fingers were moving over a set of old prayer beads.
“Mrs. Gable,” Mike called out, walking over. “What are you doing here?” The old woman startled, then smiled. “Oh, Mike,” she said, adjusting her sweater. “Just sitting. It’s peaceful here.” “Peaceful?” Mike asked, stopping by the bench. “What do you mean?” “I don’t know how to put it,” she said, searching for the words. “It just feels good. My heart feels a little lighter when I sit here for a while.”
Mike looked at the statue, then at his neighbor. Mrs. Gable was a woman who’d worked the local mill her whole life, never complained, and only believed in things she could touch. It was strange to hear her talk about “lightness of heart.” “Did you trim the grass?” he asked. “No,” she shook her head. “I brought the flowers. Mr. Henderson mowed the grass. He’s the one who brought the bench, too.”
“He said it was just sitting in his garage, and he wanted to put it to use.” “And the gravel?”
Comments are closed.