Thursday, March 05, 2009
Alone in Harold’s shop for the first time in the years that she’d worked there, Julie could feel the steady background hum in psychiatric activity. Contrary to expectation, this diminished at midnight, to be replaced by an odd sound coming from the kitchen at the back of the shop.
She investigated, creeping slowly to the door and pushing it open. There was an imp at the old pine table. It looked up as the door creaked, one hand tracing the lines of text in a book.
“I’ve made tea,” said John, stirring sugar into his cup. “Tink… tink…tink…”