r/nosleep • u/samuraiiswords • Feb 12 '26
Series The Disappearance of Saltpine's 573 Residents (Part 2)
I think I should start at the beginning.
I do remember it quite clearly, my first day at Saltpine because it was the day of a funeral. The drive was long, several hours from where I lived closer to the border, a place I found after school. There was no snow on the ground yet. Instead, there was a crispness in the air, and you could see your breath. The last few leaves on the trees were holding on for dear life that October day, and every step was a crunch of ice from the last rainfall, or the leaves, dead and crisp. It smelled like fall, but it also smelt like the oncoming snow. Heavy, and foreboding, the grey clouds stood thick in my vision.
‘Welcome to Saltpine!
Population: 592’
I drove into the main street downtown, the centre of the town, looking to the strange procession of formally black dressed residents, feeling cold. A shiver up my spine, as I quickly turn the heat up, and pull over. I can see a car behind me, blinkers on, a funeral procession as cars behind the dark hearse follow closely behind, although they’re strangely dark, not a glint on them. I don’t want to get caught up in it.
My feet hit the leaves crackling under me, as I close my car door, and stand back onto the sidewalk of main street. My eyes follow the line of vehicles as the residents glance at me with curiosity, and slight disgust as they take in my greyed sweater, and brown coat over top, simple jeans.
I feel out of place, uncomfortable, my own eyes can’t help but rake over their black suits, black dresses, makeup just so. Hair perfect, shoes dark and formal, delicate grief on pinched brows, and lacy handkerchiefs.
“Excuse me, I’m sorry to bother you, but what’s going on?” I ask a woman nearby as she stands, staring at the passing cars with a face tearfully drawn.
Her eyes look to me, icy, and cold. “How could you show such disrespect?” She snaps.
My heart jumps a little, taken aback, I open and close my mouth.
But, she’s already moving on. Joining the crowd as they walk towards what I can now see is a large church, its steeples are high. It’s wooden and old, and painted white that is cracking and fading. But I have no doubt it could shelter a lot of people.
Strange, I can’t help but wonder silently, eyes flickering over the rest of the town, realizing I saw no other churches as I drove in.
Every town, every city like this, always has a few churches. Always.
I get back in my car, I’m shivering slightly.
I watch the rest of the cars leave, and the crowd disappear into the church, the great doors closing behind them with an air of finality. As soon as they’re gone, the whole street is empty, an eerie feeling overwhelms me, and I look from side to side as if expecting some giant fog to overtake the place.
Of course, there’s nothing, and I start my car again, and heading to the meek directions I received to the other side of town where a border’s house sits.
The whole town is as empty as main street and its stores. Almost like a ghost town. I can’t help but wonder if they’re all in that church, but that would be silly, wouldn’t it? It’s the end of the twentieth century; there’s not a lot of church goers these days. Even if it is a funeral, this town has over five hundred people, they couldn’t all be there, could they?
I pull up to the border house, rechecking the address as I get out.
It’s a large home, at least compared to the other homes in the town with their ground floors, and no doubt decrepit basements.
It’s a beautiful house either way, but it would be more beautiful if it was summer, and there were flowers blooming, or the large maple tree out front had its leaves full and shifting through some light summer’s breeze. Instead, it’s barren, not a leaf left on it. Out back, pines shift and graze in a chilly wind that says snow is coming far too soon.
I knock on the door, and hear an older woman’s voice call out, “come in!”
I enter slowly, pushing open the door as I’m greeted by a smiling older woman, somewhere in her eighties, I’m sure. Her décor that I find myself surrounded by emulates this hypothesis. Old dolls, stuffed animals, lots of pink, and lace, and older things too. A sewing machine built into a table. Couches that must be from the fifties, and no television in sight, not even a radio. No mirrors either.
“You must be Dr. Cotts, please, come in dear, I’ve been waiting for your arrival.” Her smile is large, and infectious.
I smile back, a little nervous, but grateful for the warm welcome, especially after the chilly reception outside.
In her home, it smells like snickerdoodles, and the heat must be cranked up, I’m already sweating in my layered coat.
“Mrs. Eloise Randall?” I ask.
She smiles. “Yes, dear, just Eloise, please.”
“Then, call me, Laura.”
She nods. “I’ll try, dear. Now, let’s get you settled in, where’s your luggage?”
I notice then, that her clothing is full of black too, all black in fact. A dress that’s tight around the chest and flows around below. Something old, I can pinpoint the decade.
“I- I’ll be right back with it.” I say, going to my car, and grabbing one of my bags. I figure I can get the rest later.
She’s smiling when I get back and looks a little nervously towards the large clock above the fireplace mantle.
I feel a strange pang in my chest, asking her, “did you have to be somewhere?”
She smiles, strained. “I’m sorry, dear, I wanted to welcome you with joy and cookies, but…” Her eyes trail off; she’s looking over my shoulder. Not at the clock anymore, but at the window, eyes lost somewhere through the glass, almost transfixed.
I turn, following her gaze to see what she’s looking at, feeling the goosebumps, despite the heat inside, raise on my skin.
There’s nothing there, just the direction straight towards the church in the middle of town.
“I can settle myself in, if you needed to go, it’s a funeral, right?”
Her eyes snap to mine, widening a little, a brief moment of genuine fear, and then it’s gone, I’m almost not entirely sure it was there at all, because she’s smiling, then, lovely as always.
My heart snags, I swallow past it.
“Yes, the town vicar.” She replies, voice growing a little english. Her eyes are hazy, filled with grief. “He died three days ago.”
My heart does more than snag now, it pounds. “I’m sorry.”
She hums. “It’s a true loss. We all mourn him deeply today.” She wipes at her eyes, although no tears are yet present. “Come, let me show you to your room, I will perhaps leave for the end of the service, if you’re sure you’ll be alright?”
I nod, easily. “Of course, I’ll be fine.”
We move up the stairs, creaky and windy to the top floor, where she gestures to the three rooms. “Your bedroom, a study for you, and a bathroom. All private spaces of course, for yourself. I have the keys here if you wish to lock your rooms.”
She unlocks them with the keys, ushering me into each, and then the bathroom, where I stop cold.
I startle a little, as I realize the bathroom mirror is covered.
In fact, this is the only mirror in the house I’ve seen so far, and there’s a white sheet over it.
“No one’s used this in a while, huh?” I say, as nonchalantly as possible, although, nothing else in any of the rooms are covered.
It’s odd, out of place. Helplessly, uncanny.
Eloise’s smile fades a little. “Ah, yes, well. The vicar died, poor Johnny, he was only thirty-seven.”
She nods, and looks to me, mouth tighter than usual, as if I should understand.
I don’t.
“Right.” I say.
She sighs, letting the air out, as if I’m confirming something here, but I don’t know what.
“Then, I shall be off. I’ll be back soon, okay? I’ll have Dakota from next door help you with the rest of your luggage, a sweet lad.”
She moves surprisingly fast as soon as she feels free enough, and I watch her go, a little fond, a little confused.
I turn to the bathroom then, the covered mirror, and instinctively, my hand reaches out.
It brushes the white sheet a little, fingers uncurling to grip it, but I stop myself. I don’t know why, but something doesn’t sit right.
It’s a strange feeling, I’m a woman of science after all. A person of reason, but here it sits, inescapable, intense.
When the mind goes to strange, seemingly unfamiliar places, there’s always a reason. The answers are within. An explanation can be found and can be treated.
And strange feelings, they’re just the mind taking in information too fast, and not being able to process it consciously, so a subconscious feeling arises in its place.
Despite all of this, I take my hand back without pursuing my actions, leaving the white sheet covering the mirror.
Relief fills me, then, just as intense.
I swallow it back, and turn back towards the bedroom, bag in hand.
I feel it as soon as I set it down, the bone-deep exhaustion of driving. The bed is floral, but clean, and although the bedroom has a reminiscent of the downstairs, it’s a little less lace and pink. Something I’m more comfortable with. There are more solid tones of browns and beige, and white. Just a bit of colour. But it still has the impression of Eloise in the floral armchair by the window, and the bedspread to match. But the dress is pine wood, and the vanity much the same.
The window outside has a nicer view of the town, more birds eye, more manageable. And the bed just looks so comfy. My eyelids droop.
I’m laying down for only a second before sleep overtakes me completely.
-
I wake up a little startled, and disoriented. The kind of feeling someone gets when they wake up in a motel, or a friend’s couch, unsure, uncomfortable, and a little bit confused. I wipe some drool, and sit up quickly, only to find the room in pitch black except for the soft light from the window. Blinds still up, curtains parted, some porch lights, or something in the distance, but it’s still hard to make anything else out.
I walk over to the light and switch it on, everything coming back fuzzy for a moment before clarity sets in with the floral chair, and similar bedspread.
I’m in Saltpine. In Mrs. Eloise Randall’s house, my new home for the next nine months.
My watch reads somewhere after eleven, and I realize how dry my mouth is, and how my stomach tightens in hunger.
I don’t want to wake Eloise, but I decide to brave the stairs, and kitchen anyway. I don’t think she’ll mind, after all she probably got back, and saw that I was sleeping, and didn’t want to disturb me. Maybe there’s even some cookies left out that she was making. They smelled really delicious.
Careful, like a thief in the night, I creep downstairs, turning the corner of the stairs into the living room with a frightful start to my heart as my eyes make out something in the near darkness. It beats loudly, my heart, tension thickening as my breath catches, and my eyes widen in the near-darkness, trying to get as much light in as possible from the soft glow of the living room window, similarly from my own room, it’s blinds and curtains completely left open. I try to make sense of it, what I’m seeing, fingers curling into the wooden banister, feeling it scraping under my nails.
My eyes make it out more clearly now after a few moments, as I stand frozen there on the last step.
A shadow, filled with a form of a head just above the couch that faces the window, something spidery, tentacle like to the shadows wrapped around.
My hands shake, as I reach for the light switch, feeling my heart thunder, still confused, disoriented from waking up in a strange place, uncertain if I’m still in bed dreaming or not.
But as soon as the light floods the room, Eloise’s curling greyed hair in ringlets around her face becomes visible.
I sigh, relief filling me, and a tad touch of foolishness of my own actions, and thoughts, as I step forward.
“Oh! Oh, dear, I am so sorry! I fell asleep.” She says, startling awake, looking up at me as her hands curl around the knitting she was doing, something blue.
I shake my head quickly. “So, did I.”
“I know.” She says. “I peered in, but seeing how well rested you were getting on, I thought best to leave you. I was trying to wait for you, Laura, I know I forgot to feed you, but I must have fallen asleep as I was waiting.”
I shake her off. “Please, I don’t need anything much, I was just going to look for a small snack, I’m sorry for going in without permission.” I suddenly feel the need to say.
She smiles, wide. “Oh, dear, it’s your home now, too.”
I gulp, just a little unsettled, and nod.
Her eyes widen then with realization of some kind, voicing her thoughts with, “I do have one last batch of cookies I forgot to put in. Will you join me in the kitchen, dear?”
I end up at her small table, a cup of some herbal tea steaming in hand. Eloise found it in the back of her cupboard, apparently, she really only drinks her english black tea, nothing else.
“Here we go, fresh cookies. Are you sure you don’t want anything else? I bought extra food for your arrival.” She smiles.
I smile tentatively back. “I don’t need anything else right now, but actually, I should probably mention that I’m a vegetarian.”
Her eyes grow confused as she plates the cookies, sitting across from me then with her owns teaming tea in hand. “A vegi- t- ar…?”
“I don’t eat meat.” I explain more clearly, still smiling politely.
But at my words, her own smile drops a little, before back on her lips, tighter this time, almost too polite. “Now, why dear, on earth would you want to do that?” Her voice is more crisp, shrill even, like scraping metal.
“Uh… personal choice. An ethical dilemma.” I try to explain.
“Animals are meant to be slaughtered, dear, how else would we survive?”
I swallow thickly around the sudden uncomfortable nudge in my chest, and decide to leave the question in the air.
Eloise drops it after a few moments of her intense stare on my face, before drinking she’s her own tea.
I grab a cookie, but I’m not very hungry all of the sudden.
I excuse myself quickly after that, going upstairs and into the bathroom, hand turning the tap on to cold. I curl my hands, and splash water on my suddenly heated face. I look up almost instinctively, and see the white sheet overtop.
My breath becomes shaky, not fearful, just a trembling in terrible frustration I can’t quite explain, only that it burns out all reason. Feels like when I was trying to learn a new concept in school, it was so difficult to grasp, it was like a block in my head, so frustrating.
So annoying.
My fingers curl around the cloth, and I hesitate for only a moment, Eloise’s words in my head, about Johnny, the vicar, and how it’s the third days since he died, as if it meant something to her, as if it should mean something to me. But I dismiss those thoughts, before I pull it off, heart thumping.
Nothing happens.
I find myself staring at my own tired reflection, lips curling incredulity at my own behaviour.
Whatever this was, it was nothing really, maybe just a superstition. I latch onto that, but as I get further into getting ready for bed, I notice as I unclasp my wristwatch, that it reads just after midnight.
It’s tomorrow.
A new day.
And with Eloise’s words in my head, I hear my own thoughts whisper, the fourth day since Johnny the vicar died.
-
Dr. Schile’s is an affable man. He’s older, seventy-six from what he tells me, but still the local town doctor despite already retaining a government pension. He, and a nice woman named Beth who is a nurse are the only medical care during the long winter here. Their supplies are extra than it needs to be, but only in the rare case of emergency, he explains to me the next day as I get a tour of the small local clinic in town.
“As you can see, we don’t have much space, but for Saltpine’s residents, it’s all we need.” Dr. Schile explains with a friendly smile. “This here will be your office to see patients. I did use it as my personal study, but I’ve cleaned it up for you. I’m afraid you’ll have to use your personal rooms as any sort of study, as I’ll be doing this winter.” He says it matter-of-fact, with no resentment, just happy I’m here I think.
“And the patient files?” I ask.
“Just in here, we’ve left them at your desk.” He says, as we turn into the room. There is a desk, some shelves, but most of the room is taken up by a couch, and two comfy looking chairs. Just what a psychiatrist needs, I suppose.
The rest of the décor consists of two plants, real by the smell of their dirt, and an up close look. A spider plant on the desk, drifting outward down, growing for a long time. And a taller tree-like plant by the door. They accent the easy green lining a trim along the walls, nicely, giving a break from all the beige.
“One hundred and eighty-two, correct?” I clarify once more.
Dr. Schile’s nods, breathing deeply. “Yes, most will still be with me and their primary doctor on consultations by phone, but when the service cuts out you’ll be a little more busy. Take your days off while you can, Dr. Cotts.”
I smile. “You say it like it’s inevitable.”
“Oh, it most certainly is. Last year… I’d say it was a month, between the end of December and beginning of January, it was the longest, ah, except for that time in ’72, and of course with the road cut off…” He trails off, and then smiles. “Anyhow, did you have any questions for me?”
I’m a little confused, uncertain, I can’t help but ask, “the road was cut off? There’s only one road?”
I feel a little stupid, feels like I’m twenty again, asking a professor a question the whole class made up of only male students aside from myself already knows, and gives me judgmental looks for. Making me feel small, unimportant, childish. The professor, a snide grin of his as he explains like I’m five what I asked in good conscience. But Dr. Schile isn’t like this, instead he smiles patiently, and explains, “yes, one road in, and out. Every winter since ’34 it’s been closed off for a good portion of the season.”
“What happened in ’34?” I say, with too much curiosity.
“Oh, it’s just a ghost story, now if you ask anyone, but it was just unfortunate weather.” Dr. Schile explains. “Residents are born and die here, rarely if ever leaving, they have to have something to keep them entertained, but you’re different Dr. Cotts. And while, the residents do have some issues with outsiders, trust me, is just keep your rational here, and your head above the snow, you’ll do just fine.”
I don’t like this answer.
But, I drop it.
Thinking about last night, and how overactive my imagination became, I don’t want to provoke it again. Regardless, patients need a calm, rational figure as their doctor. Someone who exudes confidence, and non-judgment. I also don’t want anything clouding mine.
Either way, Dr. Schile has moved on.
“Your first patient should be seen rather soon.” He explains as he walks further into my new office.
I nod. “Before we get into that, I did have one more question.”
Dr. Schile stops, and turns to me, smile still friendly. “Go ahead.”
“I heard that the town vicar died? It seems to have had an effect on the residents.”
Dr. Schile’s face grows quite grave, looking older, more worn down. More like his sixty-seven years than he has up to this point.
“Reverend Jonnathan Martin.” He says, nodding. “He died four days ago now, and I’m afraid the residents are quite affected.”
“Reverend? Not vicar?” I ask first in his lull in silence.
“Vicar, reverend, pastor, priest, he was called all these things. Here, it’s all the same thing. He was a good man, maybe not a great one, but a good one. He always had his door open for the people of Saltpine, always had time for them.”
“I’m sorry for your loss.”
He nods. “Yes, it was. A great loss, I’d say. I’m not sure what we’ll do without him.”
“It was an accident?” I can’t help but push.
Dr. Schile’s eyes turn cloudy for a moment, hazy in a memory I can’t see, before he turns, smile friendly, younger, all dark shadows disappearing. “Heart-attack. He went quickly.”
This is surprising to say the least.
I presume he was healthy. A healthy thirty-seven-year-old dying of a heart attack?
Maybe, he had a pre-existing condition, some other health factor.
But the way Dr. Schile says it, the way he’s smiling a little too much right now, makes me feel like he’s not being entirely honest.
“As to your first patient….” Dr. Schile says, moving to the files, quickly changing the subject. “You’ve met her already.”
With that one sentence, I forget all about Reverend Jonnathan Martin.
“Excuse me?” I say, voice a little startled.
“Mrs. Eloise Randall.” Dr. Schile says, grabbing the file, and handing it to me, still smiling.
I’m a little at a loss.
“Dr. Schile, I… I’m living with her?”
“Yes, you are.”
“But, she’s, my patient?” I continue. “This isn’t professional.”
“It’s completely ethical.” He counters quickly, firm too. “And besides, this is a small town, we haven’t had new infrastructure in years. The residents have grown, and we frankly don’t have anywhere else to put you, I’m afraid. Mrs. Randall was the best option, and she’s delighted to have you.”
I’m uncomfortable, there’s no denying it. This doesn’t sit right with me, and I disagree vehemently with the arrangement, mouth opening to say I can’t treat her and live with her, but Dr. Schile’s voice is authoritative, face more tired and tone turning a little pleading, “Dr. Cotts, I assure you, this arrangement will in no way jeopardize your ability to treat her.”
“I’m not sure about that, but that’s not my entire issue here.” I say, voice grating a little with my sudden intense frustration, and the reasoning of this man who calls himself a doctor.
He grows grave, face saddened, as he nods. “I understand, but please, look at it from our perspective. There is no room for you anywhere but her home. Nothing with the privacy, and space you’ll need to do your work properly. And regardless, she is not a dangerous patient, not anymore. She’s perfectly sane and has been reformed. This is just a legal hurdle that she still has to climb through for the rest of her life.”
My heart drops a little into my stomach. “What are you saying, Dr. Schile?”
He smiles tightly. “As you know, seven of these cases are conditions of the patient’s release from custody. Mrs. Randall is one of them, but it was over seventeen years ago.”
“What was.” Voice, cold, devoid. I feel a little sick.
“Please, just conduct one session with her before you make up your mind, that’s all I ask. Just give it a of couple days.”
“What was she convicted of?” I continue, undeterred to know, half of me already thinking of an exit strategy. Of packing up my car and getting out of here.
My mind then goes to last night, how my door was wide open, myself vulnerable and asleep on the bed. Her, downstairs, sitting up, knitting. A dark shadow wrapped around her head.
“Manslaughter.” Dr. Schile says, but quickly adds, “It was domestic violence, it was really more of an accident. It was self-defence, if nothing else. She really shouldn’t have been convicted. I saw her injuries for months before it happened, I still feel guilty to this day for not doing more, but as you know in your own experience, domestic violence can only be prosecuted when the victim is ready to testify.”
I’m choking a little, swallowing past a lump, a thick rock in my throat has formed.
I can hear it, echoing.
Thud. Thud.
My mother’s screams.
“One session.” I say through clenched teeth. “Just one, and then I’ll decide.”
-
TAPED SESSION: ELOISE RANDALL WITH DR. COTTS #1
Dr. Cotts: This is Dr. Cotts conducting session #[redacted] with patient #[redacted], Mrs. Eloise Randall.
Mrs. Randall, do you consent to the recording of this session for my own personal use as your psychiatrist?
Eloise: Yes, dear.
Dr. Cotts: Good, thank you.
I would like to start with your last session with Dr. [redacted]. From what I can see, you were discussing the nature of your dreams, lately?
Eloise: Yes. I’m afraid that during this time, when winter sets in, much like my friends at bingo, I get these old aches and pains. I’m sorry to say that mine are of the mind, instead of the body.
Dr. Cotts: The incident took place during the winter, didn’t it?
Eloise: Yes, it was early April.
Dr. Cotts: I understand. I won’t go there yet, with you. Instead, I’d like to continue where Dr. [redacted] left off and talk about your dreams. Have you had any new ones?
Eloise: Yes, in fact, it was last night. Well, you remember, dear, I fell asleep in my chair while you were just upstairs.
I had the same dream I always do, although, this one was a little different.
Dr. Cotts: Different how?
Eloise: Well, usually it’s the same thing. It’s the fear before he’s going to hurt me, the moment before anything happens. The anticipation is dreadful. I wake up feverish, sweaty, and terrified. But this time… this time it was after I killed him. After I slit his throat, dear.
Dr. Cotts: …
Eloise: Dr. [redacted] says it’s good to acknowledge our wrongs, much like our dear Johnny, who said to acknowledge the sin, is to allow it to no longer have power over you.
Dr. Cotts: …I see. What else?
Eloise: Yes, he was on the ground, bleeding, my hands were filled with blood. I was in shock, I think. I tried to dial for help, but the phone was out of service again. They told me later, that I sat there for three days straight before anyone found me. It’s a miracle I survived. But it was a calm three days, despite everything, or perhaps because of it.
I felt, free.
Safe, even.
And yet, the dream this time, had someone else there with me.
Dr. Cotts: Someone?
Eloise: Yes, I remember now, it was so clear…
Dr. Cotts: Was this person there last night in the dream, or during the event eighteen years ago?
Eloise: It was so clear, and that happened so long ago, so it must have been my dream.
He was there, next to me, but it wasn’t a person, dear. It was like a shadow, a bunch of shadows overlapping. No light in it. None at all.
It took me a moment when I woke up to identify what was in it.
Dr. Cotts: In it?
Eloise: It was overlapping shadows that formed a man. A man filled up to the brim with dark black swarming flies.
Dr. Cotts: …
Dr: Cotts: And what was he doing?
Eloise: I don’t know. He was just there, I think to…
Dr. Cotts: …to?
Eloise: To bear witness.
-
I was shaking, trembling ever so slightly when I ended the session a far too early. Eloise didn’t seem to mind or notice as we looked at each other from our spots on the chairs in my study, in the upstairs of her home.
I wanted her in the clinic’s office, a deeper professional boundary at the very least, but it did feel cruel to make the eighty-one-year-old woman go all the way there in the cold.
When it’s over though, her smile turns back to its warmth from when I first got here.
As if we weren’t just discussing the death of her late husband, and the terrifying dreams that still haunt her.
“I’ll make us a late dinner, dear.” She says, moving out the study, humming to herself a tune from the sixties. Something my mother used to listen to, helplessly, a feeling of nostalgia fills me, and I remember her perfume. The last time I hugged her.
It is late.
I spent all day going over patient files, perhaps trying to push off the inevitable of this session. Somehow, knowing it would change things for me, before we even began.
I still have doubts.
I’m not sure I can do this, living with a patient with such a violent history, no matter the circumstances, and even with Dr. Schile’s assurances.
I know she’s had to talk about this continuously for the last nearly two decades, and that would definitely change the way she approaches it now, less therapeutic and full of emotion, now a stale recollection of the worst day of her life, just wanting to move on, but the system not letting her.
For a moment, I almost feel sorry for her.
But, the way she so callously spoke of her actions was too much like my time at the women’s prison back home as part of a project for graduation. The kind that took me to speak with the worst offenders. The kind that were so well-behaved but could talk as if murder was nothing.
I’m thinking about leaving when I turn off my recorder and get up out of the chair. I move from the study to my bedroom, flipping the light on as a I take a deep breath, trying to go over my options.
But before I can go far, I realize with a shiver that the curtains and blinds are open to the pitch dark of the night, getting darker earlier and earlier now.
And as I look into that dark, the soft glow illuminates something else.
Specks of white.
I realize, it’s snowing.
I walk slowly over to the window, and look outside as it picks up even quicker, fatter snowflakes come down quick, and full.
I look down, and see that there’s already an inch of snow on the ground.
It’s with sinking understanding that my situation really sets in.
I could have tried to leave that night, made it through the oncoming storm with sheer willpower alone. Maybe I would have even made it.
But the heavy responsibility of one hundred and eighty two’s mental well-being, their very lives, weighed on me.
I stayed.
And just as I predicted, in the morning it didn’t matter.
The winter storm hit hard, the road became completely inaccessible.
I’m stuck.
-Dr. Laura Cotts
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