Mrs Potts’ house was burning down, and she didn’t seem to notice.
Just like every evening, she sat in her rocking chair reading a book. Except this time, flames were creeping up the curtains.
Then, just like every evening, at 8:00 she made tea. Except this time, the cooker was melting.
We phoned the fire brigade, but couldn’t go in. The house was far too dangerous.
And now it’s a blackened shell.
But still, every evening, Mrs Potts sits with her book. Then, at 8:00, she makes tea.
We’d lived next door to a ghost for the last five years.
1 comment… add one
Makes me feel I want to know more about Mrs. Potts. Maybe you could bring her in again, when she was alive or why she never left the house after she’d died. I like this one, it could go on longer quite easily.