Saturday's Storyteller: "She felt a cold hand on her shoulder."
by Belinda Roddie She felt a cold hand on her shoulder. A large one. Weathered, each wrinkle holding its own ribbon of frost. Brown. Each fingernail short from a long-term biting habit. Torn up cuticles. Scarred knuckles. She knew her grandfather's hand when she felt it. He did not like to be alone anymore, and the fact that his bedroom was downstairs while her office was upstairs was most likely discomforting. Addison straightened her back against her chair before looking up into her grandfather's dark, creased face. "It's late," she said. She reached for the old man's outstretched fingers and gave them a squeeze. "You should be in bed." "What about you?" "The writing demons got me again. Will you be okay?" Addison's grandfather did not respond to that. Instead, he removed his hand from the young woman's grip and maneuvered to an old, red cushioned chair in the corner. It was a piece of furniture that was designat...