Microhorror

A classic

The undertaker found her sitting on the sofa, blubbing into a tissue. She was what the guys back at work would call a classic young widow, about to inherit more than the average person could earn in a lifetime. But that was none of his business.

His mouth, sticky with a sudden lack of saliva, hampered him. How would he talk about this? He wasn't sure. He'd never done this kind of gig before. 

“Mrs Evans, we just wanted to talk about Mr Evans. Is he–” 

“Please. I can't talk about it. Just follow the original plan. Please.” She waved him away with a manicured hand. 

The undertaker's eyes shifted away in thought. “OK, we have that, but we—” 

“Please. I'm so sorry.” She swiftly dismissed herself and ran upstairs. 

Her sister made an apologetic smile and showed him to the door when it became apparent that Mrs Evans wasn't coming back down. 

With a furrowed brow, he took one final look at the house, gave an awkward wave to the sister, sank back into the driver's seat and drove away. 

*

Mrs Evans, having gone to bed early with a headache, rose to go to the toilet at ten minutes past midnight. 

The flush of the toilet seemed to thunder through the empty, seemingly cavernous house, like a stomach that hadn't devoured anything in days. 

She shuffled back towards the bed, sliding her slippers off her feet. Her grieving silence was interrupted only by a faint scratching sound. 

She noticed that it was raining heavily outside. Droplets raced down the glass panes, crashing into the windowsill, their wet legacy dropping down into her room, spattering on the radiator beneath the window. She got up to close it. 

The hairs on the back of her neck stood erect– sensors overwhelmed in alarm, for she heard a familiar sound. A hushed tone. A lover's whisper.

“Richard…” his name spilled from her velvet lips like honey. “Is that you?” Her heart, still hollow with anguish, danced to a different rhythm; a song it knew, all the same. It beat wildly and thrashed a nectar of a different kind through her veins. 

“Beverly. Can I come in?”