I could be wrong, but I suspect Mason’s sister might be alive and reaping terror upon the villagers of Ottawa, just like she always did. When I lived out there, I prayed every night for a tornado to come and drop a house on her. She thought I’d married her father for his money, and threatened me once with a large, well-honed kitchen knife.
One year, for her birthday, I gave her a pair of striped, thigh-high stockings. My own private joke. She actually wore them. They were nice ones I bought from Eve’s shop.
Eventually, my wish got granted, minus the house part and the tornado part. She died in the SUCs. A former neighbor got a hold of me to let me know. I asked for (and reveled in) every gory detail.
Still, I never saw the body for myself.
Jill Riddell is a writer in Chicago. She teaches at the School of the Art Institute and has a weakness for nature, magic, and pennies abandoned in sidewalk cracks.