The Window Seat where Charlie McGavin sat

For the movella mystery 'what's hidden on your street' competition!
Not like your ordinary movella- written with a twist sure to chill you to the bone! (sure did with my family!)
Please read and comment your thoughts- quite a unique way of writing!

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2. Vicky- A victims last thoughts

 

‘What a wonderful night! We can’t express our thanks enough Vicky, you always make this place so welcoming in the run up to Christmas! Whoops, maybe a little too welcoming…knew I shouldn’t have had that last G&T! ’ I smiled at Gloria’s drunken babble, and gave her a wave as she left the pub, slipping and sliding on the snowy doormat. As much as I loved running the pub, it was always nice to feel that familiar sense of relief flood over yourself as the last customer makes their way out. It was like an instant relaxation all the way through your body…even my hair seemed to relax on closing time. However as I knew all too well, this feeling wouldn’t last forever; after my regular candle lit bath, after the bedtime hot chocolate and the buttered piece of toast, the sense of relief would all too soon ebb away into an even more familiar feeling of loneliness.

With a sigh, I dropped the last few dirty glasses into the sink, and made my way up the thin narrow stairs into the bathroom, where I set about running my bath at exactly the temperature I liked it and with the exact combination of soaps to make it perfect. A long and hectic night deserved only the best. I relaxed as I sunk deep into the bubbles, letting them wash all worries of work and electricity bills away. My thoughts instead drifted to Mitch; I’d served him earlier. The usual, one pint of carling followed by a glass of scotch to ease his joints, though I gave him the scotch on the house. A desperate attempt at a flirt you could say…that’s the kind of thing it comes to when you’ve been out of practice with men for so long.

A jolt at the window made my thoughts snap back from the warm bubbly world of men into the real world of the pub. I must have fallen asleep, as my bath was cold and murky with the day’s dirt; only the odd bubble remained, stuck to the side of the second hand bathtub. I clambered out of the bath and immediately cursed myself when I saw the shape of a dark pointy eared figure outside the stained glass window; id been so wrapped up in my own thoughts that I’d forgotten to let Percival in! My incapability to look after a simple house cat meant that any male who could have ended up with me had a lucky escape.

After a couple of half hearted shoves, the old window finally gave way and I braced myself for Percival’s usual hysterical, claw filled greeting, a personal form of punishment to show his distaste at being left out an hour too late. But no greeting came. I huddled closer into the pink fluff of my towel as the icy breeze from outside swept through the window, and stepped closer to peer out; and what I saw then, is something which I will never forget as long as I live. Percival’s body hung limply from a rusted chain outside of the window, damp with frost and yet warm with blood. A metallic scent filled the air, and one green eye stared at me eerily as he hung. The winds made him sway from side to side, a menacing ginger wind chime in the cold winters night.

 I tasted bile at the back of my throat. I wanted to grab Percival and cradle him, and weep into his soft comforting fur. I wanted to run, run as fast as I could from this thing. From my life, and everything that came with it. But all I could do was weep as I sunk to my knees beside the bathtub. Giant convulsing sobs dominated my body, as I lay on the tiled floor, still damp from my bathwater. So overpowering were these feelings of sadness and disgust that I didn’t even hear the footsteps that were sounding up the narrow pub stairs. One after the other they sounded, and each time they got closer, each time Percival’s paralyzed body swung in the nighttime breeze, was one moment closer to my death. I tried to convince myself it wasn’t true, that there weren’t footsteps coming up my staircase, that my beloved pet cat wasn’t hung by a chain staring at me from outside my window, that if I just lay here in silence it would all be over. And it was then, as the white wooden door to my bathroom opened, that I realized it really was all over. Was it relief I felt in that split second before I died? That my lonely life was almost drawing to a close, and I no longer needed to look at happy families or married couples and wish I was them. Or was it fear, so intense and so deep that it was only something you experienced before death; a rite of passage into whatever lay beyond. I could barely breathe as I lay cowered on the floor, a man so tall and dark standing above me that It pained me to look. A silver blade glinted in the moonlight, sending a second dose of bile up into my throat. It was then something caught my attention; my eyes became level with a pair of shiny black shoes, polished beyond every inch of their imagination. And in those last few moments, I thought I recognized those shoes. Yes, those very shoes which every other day I admired for being so shiny and meticulously polished as I collected the half empty beer glass from the window seat table. An old man usually sat there, slightly balding, twisting the thread of the burgundy cushion around his little finger. Yes I recognized those shoes… a pair of black polished shoes. Then I saw red. Then I felt metal. And then that was it.

 

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