Short Stories, including, "Burning Bridges," "The Lowliest of Humans," and "The Scent of Evil."
The old man was creepy feature in our house that summer. Each morning, after breakfast, my mother would wheel him out onto the landing outside our kitchen door, and there he remained for most of the day.
His eyes were sunk deep into their sockets. He was nearly blind; supposedly he could see only shadows. His nose was bony and hawkish, jutting out from a face that was just a mass of wrinkles. His pale skin appeared paler under the early morning sun, and no matter how warm it was, a heavy afghan lay across his lap and over the arms of his wheelchair. His lips were always parted, and sometimes you could catch a glimpse of his two remaining front teeth. The only time he ever spoke now was to ask for water. “Cold, cold water,” he rasped softly whenever he was thirsty. It never sounded like a request, but an observation, as though he was seeing in his mind some mountain stream whose crystal clear water was babbling through a formation of rocks. He would repeat the words at almost exactly intervals, never certain anybody was close enough to hear....
--from "Cold, Cold Water"