Spindlewheel Stories

A woman with a broad hat and a dark thin coat stood on my doorstep and told me, with condolences, that a man I'd never met had died. She told me this, having seen my name written as one of his next-of-kin on a less-important document they had found while looking for a more-important document in the shape of a last will and testament. I'd already known where his house was, and which aisle to find his company's products at my local grocery store, but I'd never visited, or bought, his property, before today. I'd never had occasion to. He was not a holiday, or weekend, or birthday kind of man, and given the rumors about his shady business practices I doubt he'd have been any joy at a party. To be perfectly honest, whatever guilt-ridden pittance he might have left for me in his will isn't worth the price of staying in this horrible mansion with a bunch of strangers I suppose I must be related to. But we can't leave until we reach a consensus, which means: until that will is found, I've got to make the best of