The Widower

One of my earliest short stories, a supernatural tale, perhaps, reblogged for Halloween.

Elizabeth Stott - to Blog or Not




Elizabeth Stott

In girum imus nocte et consumimur igni – we turn in a circle in the night and are consumed by the fire.

On the day of the funeral, a chill morning in early February, the widower watched from the front room window as the hearse drew up to the house, accompanied by a single black limousine. Yellow and mauve crocus showed through a thin layer of snow. He had ordered white lilies for the coffin. Seen through the window of the hearse, the effect was of a boxed flower arrangement. When the coffin was brought into the hall, he moved aside the large crystal vase that stood on the polished side-table, and had his flowers set upon it. The warmth of the house brought out the heavy scent of the lilies, and the widower admired their graceful, feminine trumpets and the innocent cream-tipped style…

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