Mrs. Twiddles

Mrs. Twiddles finished her recce of the garden. No distractions or temptations tonight.

She entered the kitchen through the cat flap, ignored the empty bowls and headed straight for the stairs.

She padded into the bedroom. The window was closed and the curtains drawn. The lamp was on and cracked the gloom with strange, otherworldy shadows. Mrs. Twiddles’ nose twitched. The air was fetid, sweet and sickly. She jumped onto the bed and climbed atop the familiar bundle under the duvet.

Mrs. Twiddles looked down; cold, glassed over eyes looked back.

Dead for two days now.

Mrs. Twiddles was hungry.