They called him Caldwell. It was easier than explaining why his nickname was “Grim.”

The accidents started when he moved to Davenport. The McGilly neighborhood hadn’t experienced a tragedy greater than a grandparent passing in their sleep in over thirty years.
One night into Caldwell’s arrival, a local man ran a red light and killed a family of five. Caldwell had nothing to do with it. He couldn’t have. He was at home putting away chipped ceramic plates.
Outside of a hound dog appearance with his droopy cheeks and molasses thick drawl, Caldwell was a pleasant man. He worked at the community bank. Never too late or too loud. He became an assumed staple to the bank’s function.
He hid between tasks— not intentionally, but his paperbacks provided ample cover as he picked through his daily chicken salad sandwich. Occasionally bemoaning the amount of tarragon.
Too much or too little, no one ever heard.
The deaths weren’t a common a common occurrence after he showed up— but a slew of maladies struck the town.
Yellow fever, TB, dyslexia. The last felt uncovered rather than precipitated.
None the less, milk curdled quicker, babies attacked the teat, fathers awoke late for Sunday chores.
The rhythm of Davenport was awry.
Being the faithful populace they were, they sent summons upward in search of a salve for their woes.
Surely a single man couldn’t chase away the favor of God?
No prayers were answered.
Then the rumors began.
“Grim Caldwell isn’t a man.”

”The banker deals in sin.”

They waited for a final proclamation. The damning crescendo of their worries.
“Grim Caldwell is a Devil.”

They believed he brought Evil to their land. And for the good people of Davenport, that just wouldn’t do.
By the next week, the bank still held an errant waft of tarragon. But no rustle of thin pages could be heard in the back room or at a desk titled “Caldwell.”