"Rose Cottage" by Clive Martyn

On the wooden gate the deep gouges from the mortician’s trolley had been filled in, smoothed, sanded and repainted. Where the bonfire had been lit on the grass, the furniture burnt, a new lawn had been laid. The front door had been replaced.
The broken doorjam repaired, painted and varnished. The hall carpet had been ripped up and binned. The blood on the tiles beneath had been scrubbed until only a faint trace remained. A new carpet covered those traces. The scratches from ten red nails dug into the plaster, the deep holes punched by the knife through soft flesh into the wall beyond, had been filled. Fresh green paint had been applied twice. Bloody handprints had been washed off the woodwork, the light switch. In the kitchen the buckshot and brains had been dug out of the ceiling, the holes filled and covered with coats of thick white paint. The corner window shattered by a piece of skull had been replaced. Bleach had cleaned the black and white tiles sufficiently. The maggots had been squished under foot and hovered up. Fresh flowers now stood where the note had been found.

The echoes of the argument…

..the screams…

..had faded.


“Oh it has such a lovely feel,” the young woman said, smiling as she walked through the hallway into the kitchen.

Her husband nodded. “I really like it,” he said, sounding surprised with himself, “and it’s on for 250?”

The Agent looked down at the details again, hiding her nerves, her excitement.

“Yes,” she said smiling as confidently as she could, “quite a bargain, don’t you agree?”

“Wow,” the couple said, grinning at each other.

“I think we should make an offer,” the wife whispered.

She was so quiet only the husband…

…and the house…

…heard.