The Empty House, by Guy Fletcher

It was only last year I heard the pitiful cry of, “Help, help, help.”

At first I thought it was a cat, and for one selfish second, even contemplated ignoring the plea.

“You saved my life!” she exclaimed weakly.

Now she has gone. The photograph of her horrible son, whom she adored, will have disappeared like a ghost.

He rarely visited, except after her death, piling “useful” objects into his van like a vulture.

The house has curtains drawn and sleeps, but soon a new family will move in, unaware of its past. Oh, that is the natural order of things.


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