The Cane’s Last Stroke

Old Man Hargrove had always been a man of routine. Every morning at six, he’d creak down the stairs of his two-story farmhouse, his knees complaining louder than the floorboards, and set the kettle on for tea. He’d feed the barn cat, though it rarely came when called, and read the paper from front to back, even the obituaries, a habit he’d picked up after his wife, Elsie, passed. That was two years ago last March. He’d loved Elsie, in his way, though she’d been a demanding woman, what with her illnesses and her needing him to fetch this and that. He’d done it all, grumbling but compliant.

When he started seeing Martha, a widow from the next town, it was a quiet relief. Martha was easy, laughed at his jokes, and didn’t mind a bit of dust on the mantelpiece. She’d started staying over on weekends, and old Hargrove felt a flicker of something he’d thought was dead—a bit of lightness. But the house didn’t approve. The first sign was the cane. Elsie’s cane, the one she’d used in her last months, stood by the front door. One night, as Hargrove passed, it toppled over with a clatter. He set it back, muttering about the draft. The next night, it was in the hallway, lying across the threshold to the kitchen, as if to bar his way. He tripped, cursed, and shoved it into the closet.

Martha noticed things too. She’d wake up with her hair pulled, as if someone had been yanking it. She’d find her clothes moved from the chair to the floor. She’d hear the floorboards creak in the hallway at night, when Hargrove was snoring beside her. ‘You’re imagining things,’ he’d say, but his knuckles were white around his teacup. The rats, he’d tell her, they’re in the walls. But when she demanded he call an exterminator, he’d change the subject.

Then came the dream. His daughter, Clara, called him one afternoon, her voice shaky. ‘Dad, I had the strangest dream last night. Mom was there, standing at the foot of my bed, but she looked… angry. She didn’t speak, but she pointed down the hallway, toward the stairs. And I saw a woman’s silhouette, but it wasn’t her. It was like she was warning me.’ Old Hargrove laughed it off, but the teacup in his hand rattled against the saucer. He told Martha they should take a break. She packed her bag, her face a mask of hurt, but she left without a fuss. He thought that would settle it.

It didn’t. That night, as he lay in bed, the covers rose slowly, as if someone was lifting them from the foot. They fell back with a soft thud. Then rose again. He sat up, heart hammering, and saw the shape of the cane—he’d brought it out of the closet, hadn’t he?—standing upright in the corner, like a sentinel. It tapped three times on the floor. He heard Elsie’s voice, faint but unmistakable, not with anger, but with the weary resignation she’d had when she told him, ‘If you ever bring another woman into this house, after I’m gone, I’ll make sure you remember me.’ He’d laughed then. He wasn’t laughing now.

He spent the next week in a haze, barely eating, sleeping in the armchair in the living room, because the bed felt wrong. He’d wake up with the cane in his hand, as if he’d been holding it. He’d find her old bookmarks in his newspaper. He’d see her reflection in the window at night, but when he turned, no one was there. And then came the last night. He was in the kitchen, making tea, when the cane, propped against the counter, slid across the floor and stopped at his feet. He looked down at it, and the handle seemed to point toward the basement door. He hadn’t been down there in years, not since Elsie had gotten too sick. He’d left boxes of her things, never sorted.

With trembling hands, he picked up the cane. It felt heavy, warmer than wood should be. He opened the basement door and descended the creaking steps. The air was cold, musty. In the dim light from a bare bulb, he saw her old trunk, covered in dust. He knelt, set the cane aside, and lifted the latch. Inside, folded neatly, was her wedding dress. But on top of it lay a photograph—of him and Martha, at the county fair, she’d had it printed recently. He didn’t know. He heard a laugh, Elsie’s laugh, but it was cold and sharp. The basement light flickered. He turned, and the cane was gone.

He stumbled upstairs, locking the basement door behind him. He never spoke of it again. The neighbors noticed he looked older, gaunt, and he never had visitors. He’d sit on the porch, eyes darting to the windows, as if waiting. When the mailman asked if he was okay, he’d say, ‘She’s still here. She’s always here.’ And he’d look at the cane, which had reappeared by the front door, standing upright, waiting. He knew it wouldn’t be long before it struck again, and this time, he might not be the one who walked away.