The first snow of the season had arrived by the next time I saw the girl in the headscarf through that upstairs window. A thin layer of soft powder had covered the neighborhood and she was laid pretty much in the same position she'd assumed to pray last time. It was early dawn light and I couldn't understand why she would brave the chill of the early morning like that. As I strained my eyes to see closer I realized that her headscarf had spilled forward into the snow. At least that was what I thought at first.
By the time I had brushed my teeth and approached the window again, the winter sun was lighting the snow, bright and pure. The first thing that struck me was how strange it seemed that she had prayed long enough for the rug and herself to be dusted with a good layer of white. I fetched my glasses to afford myself a clearer view, and I knew then that it was not the headscarf that spilled about her head, for it was black—had always been black—and the spillage that encircled her was red. It was blood, I knew, for it was the same color as my own, the same color as the blood of every man and woman in the neighborhood. The only difference between this blood and our own was that it was spilled and still and cold.
I figured from what I could see that the killer must have escaped toward old Ted's yard, for I could make out footprints leading through the snow. I called the emergency services like a good neighbor should, I guess, but I offered no name. Further, a fresh flurry of powder had arrived before the emergency services did, and those footprints were gone before anyone else could witness them.
No one ever did figure out for sure what happened to the girl in the headscarf. I had some sadness about it, I must admit. But, as with so many things before, I kept that fact to myself. Sometimes it's safer that way. The neighbors were shocked, of course, but only in the way they were shocked when old Ted's missus ran away with his brother the month before. There seemed to be a strange excitement in that surprise.
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The Girl in the Headscarf
Short Story**Previously published in Mobius** A piece of dark fiction that reflects the realities of our modern age, yet remains timeless. A passive narrator from Anytown observes the comings and goings of an apparent refugee throughout a calendar year and de...
