Dear Mrs Rich-And-Filthy,

Thanks for providing me with a most extremely cold and damp and ugly mansion over the last few months. I have truly enjoyed dealing with the shit-for-brains neighbours, particularly the one who decided “the midnight witching hour” was perfect for practicing voodoo, and I love that.

I also love clearing up after the stinking alley cats that have taken shelter in the attic, which smells like a public toilet, by the way. Plus, the lounge has more mould than furniture.

Given that your twisted mind believes Holly Manor a habitable building, perhaps you would like to share the experience by living in it yourself. When it rains, it sounds like bullets are crashing through the roof into my brain. You won’t mind of course, you thought it perfectly suitable conditions for me.

The area is relatively crime free, why I have only known of thirteen murders, twenty-three drug arrests and one minor bank robbery in the area during my time in this shit-hole, which makes it a steal at the current rent.

It is with a most unregretful heart that I hereby give my notice on Holly Manor.

Yours in-no-way sincerely

K. Davidson

“Argh!” She crumpled up the paper once more and it joined the pile of unsent complaint letters in her wastebasket. How she wished to send those letters, she and her little sister Katelyn deserved better than this cave of pigeon crap. However, she knew that her wages from Mikey’s Happy Hour would only stretch so far, and this was the only three-bed to harbour herself, Katy, her dear friend Gracie on occasion, on those meagre sums of money.

She had forty-five minutes ‘til her next shift, she needed a bloody strong espresso to get through another night of laddish boys and sleazy bastards trying to look down her shirt. Her mind wandered as the coffee machine whirred, she was single, and she half-wished she didn’t have to support Katy alone. The espresso was done and the rich, roasted scent woke her from her stupor. Those feelings of loneliness were quickly suppressed, she had no time for such sentiments.

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Kissing Katy goodnight and locking and bolting the front doors behind her was routine by now, sad but true. The misty night air was polluted and felt sticky in her throat as she walked along the chilly street. Rain kissed her pale cheeks and stained her chafing shoes. She muttered an old Irish hymn tunelessly under her breath as she wandered. It brought her back to memories of her father, teaching her to play the piano, he drilled perseverance into her habits. Her mother praised her efforts, cradling a baby Katelyn in her arms. Katy. The memory of her sister shook her back to reality. She worked to keep Katy safe, no money can be made from a love for music. She could hear the offensive, distasteful music that was typical of Mikey’s, groaned inwardly, and swallowed two paracetamol tablets. Glancing at her watch and cursing herself for being late, she braced herself for an evening of torture, and pushed open the wooden doors.

The alcoholic stench that had plagued her nostrils for almost a year was absent from the bar tonight; the loud music was not accompanied by the drunken cheers of celebrating football fans or the wolf whistles of the off-shift factory workers. She was on edge; Saturday was their busiest night. Cautious, she peered around, looking for Phil –he’s always on shift now- or Carol –nobody was behind the bar. Even Ms Evans would do, yelling at her for being tardy. There was something eerie about the silence –apart from the music still blasting from the jukebox- that Kim didn’t like. “Sorry I’m late … Ms Evans … I’ll prepare some glasses…” She crept a few cautious steps towards the doorway then chided herself for being worried about a quiet night, it should have been a nice change. She skipped calmly and lightly down the creaky steps to the storeroom, clicked open the lock, turned on the light, and screamed.

Three mutilated corpses –easily recognisable to Kim- lay on the floor, all with jagged, bloody gashes across the neck; a bloodied, broken bottle of Jack lay in the corner- a makeshift murder weapon; crude but clever. Mr Phillip Johnson, the waiter; Miss Carol Jenkins, the bartender; Ms Niamh Evans, the owner’s wife. Her brain processed the horrifying scene that she saw and Kimberley Davidson took to her heels and ran for her life. It was with shaking hands that she dialled the phone number…”Harlevian Criminal Investigations, Agent Muller, what is your dilemma?”

“Help me Gracie…Mikey’s…Phil… Carol…dead...help me!”