Mrs Davey from number 35

“Come away from the door Gran, you know you’re not suposed to go outside.”
“I’m letting in Mrs Davey from number 35. She’s been tapping at the window all afternoon.”

It was going to be one of those days again. She’d raised him since he was six, and he loved her dearly, but repeating himself was getting too tiring. Taking her shoulders, and steering her back to the lounge, he tried to reassure her. “You can’t let Mrs Davey in anymore, she died last month. You sent flowers, remember.”

He knew it would be wasted, as soon as he sat her down. Staring through the window, there indeed was Mrs Davey from number 35. Both hands tapping at the window, still bloody from the unsuspecting postman. His bloody flesh still dripped from her gaping mouth.

Drawing the curtain, he knew even that wouldn’t keep her away for long. “I’ll go and put the kettle on shall I, we’ll have a nice cup of tea.”

“Oooh, that sounds lovely dear . . . and don’t forget to make one for Mrs Davey, I’ll go and let her in.”

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