Shelly Missmail sped up on her bike, not because she was eager to finish her morning paper deliveries, but to keep the savory autumn air flowing on her face. She smiled slightly. Here, she could be nothing more than a blur of motion as the world passed by, toiling away over inconsequential trifles. To Shelly, this wasn’t work, this was pleasure.
Her old bones were anything but rusty. She adamantly insisted on biking through her routes, despite her co-workers teasing her about looking like a 12-year-old earning her summer allowance. She’d poke back at them, claiming that driving a cushy car only made them fat and lazy. Though she’d never admit it, she secretly welcomed the jesting. Deep down, she was proud of the defiance she showed her aging body.
Pine Road, her next turn approached. She looked around her – no cars in sight. As she rounded the corner, a familiar old man about Shelly’s age sat outside on his porch in a nice, buttoned up shirt and brown slacks.
“Mornin’ Shelly!” he called out.
“Morning Harry!” Shelly replied without stopping.
“How about the cinema with me this weekend? I’ll buy!” Ever since Harry figured out that Shelly came by every morning at 6:30 am to deliver his paper, and more importantly that she was single, this old bachelor had been trying to win Shelly’s heart with more endearing stubbornness than any man had when she was in her prime.
“You know my answer, young man!” She called playfully as she neared his driveway.
Harry wheezed a chuckle as if he’d guessed the punchline of a joke. “I’ll catch you next time then!”
Shelly chucked the paper near his front porch and waved at him. He waved back and shortly disappeared behind her. He was a sweet man, and maybe they would enjoy each other’s company if she gave him a chance, but in her mind, she was far too old, goods that are too spoiled to bother with dating. Or marriage, God forbid. No, her life was perfect, peaceful, and positively predictable. Ain’t nothing wrong with that kind of life for an old girl like Shelly. Why should she ruffle the feathers of a contented hen? Leave her be, she’d say. She was happy providing a service as a behind-the-scenes nobody, never getting involved in the personal lives of those whom she happily served in silence.
The rest of her route was quiet. Harry was really the only one who was awake at this hour in this neighborhood. Except maybe a few cats, which she did stop for if they looked like they wanted a good scratch.
She was about to pass house number 5087 to drop off the paper when she noticed the mailbox. Open. She slowed down to close the mailbox, and in her line of sight, she saw the front door wide open.
Shelly didn’t know anyone in this neighborhood, other than Harry, sort of, but she knew the lady in this house was old enough to require a walker or a wheelchair to get around, and she scarcely visited her own front door, let alone left it wide open.
The lights were also off. What concerned her more was the fake potted plant that sat by the front door, now knocked over.
Worry spurred her into motion. She swung off her bike, not bothering to flip out the kick stand, and quickly paced up to the house. She leaned into the doorframe. It smelled of old house and even older candles. The house décor was outdated: floral print curtains and furniture, striped wallpaper, brown carpet, and a plethora of miniatures from the 1950’s.
She looked at the floor. The entry mat was soiled with muddy boot prints. The drawers in the kitchen ahead of her were all opened and raided.
Just then, Shelly heard a low shuffle down the hall. Too quick to be an old lady in a walker.
Someone else is in the house.
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