Strange Visitor

The single word spoken aloud echoed awkwardly in the empty space, he didn't get an answer; he wasn't expecting one, but he still felt that he wasn't alone.

Henry climbed the stairs one riser at a time and the feeling of not being alone climbed along with him. Each step produced its own distinct creak, sounds to which he paid unusual attention. Like a child walking past the haunted house every neighbourhood has for no other purpose on a dare he imagined unseen eyes watching his every move.

He told himself with the voice of a reasonable adult that his reaction was absurd. The house was empty, it had been empty when he left and it had stayed that way while he was sat by his father's bedside.

At the top of the stairs he turned right into the bedroom he had used as a boy and had been drawn back to two moths earlier by the elastic of filial illness. The curtains were drawn to hide the clutter that had colonised it over twenty years of disuse and the air inside was faintly musty.

Having taken off his shirt he walked back across the landing and into the bathroom, turned the hot tap on full and when the basin was full wiped steam off the mirror.

There was a noise from somewhere behind him, in the mirror Henry watched the eyes of his reflection widen in alarm.





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This is me: home-writer, book-reader, dog-lover and occasional poet. I make this website to share my and my friends texts with You, dear Reader. Please: read carefully, don't be scary, upgrade your mood and be king and leave your comment. :)