One Star Review

Comic horror story about a worn down man who discovers the power of online reviews, with devestating consequences

Graham Brayton was never one to complain.

If he ordered beef at a restaurant and received chicken, he would eat it. If a woman shoved past in the queue to a bus, he would allow the incident to pass without even a tut exiting his lips. If his takeaway pizza arrived stone cold and half eaten, as it had three times in recent months, he would simply place the remainder in the microwave and watch the food revolve, accepting the situation as his lot.

In short, he was a man who life took full advantage of, and who simply sat there and allowed it to stomp all over his head.

One would think that such a man would be filled with a silent, seething resentment. A pressure cooker of boiling rage that would one day explode, resulting in punches thrown and a charge of GBH. But was not the case.

It wasn’t that Graham didn’t realise he was being treated unjustly. It was just that he had accepted, from a very young age, that life was unfair.

He had found such acceptance relieved a wide range of ills. While his friends and coworkers ranted and raved over their grievances, Graham sat quietly by, drinking his not completely full pint and eating his overpriced crisps with unelevated cortisol levels.

In fact, when he’d finally managed to get an appointment with his GP, his doctor was staggered by how healthy he was.

‘You have the blood pressure of a twenty-year-old! Bet you’re one of those keto-eating, Lycra-wearing long-distance runners, am I right?’

Graham winced, both at the thought of wearing Lycra, and the oncoming approach of one of his nasty headaches. ‘Not really. But it’s not my blood pressure, I’m concerned about. You see, I keep getting these migraines…’

He trailed off. The doctor had already turned away to his computer, forgetting him in real time.

With an inward sigh, Graham left the doctor’s office. He was just wondering how many painkillers he could take without causing serious internal damage, when the bellows of a man the colour of a watermelon interrupted his thoughts.

‘This is OUTRAGEOUS. My wife is in AGONY and we have been waiting for almost an HOUR.’

The receptionist gave the red-faced patient a look of withering boredom. ‘Mr Roberts,’ she said, with such weary resignation that Graham was almost impressed. ‘As I have already told you, we are running behind schedule. Please let me assure you that your wife will be seen as soon as possible.’

‘That’s not good enough! I want to speak to the manager! IMMEDIATELY!’

Trying to ignore the stabbing pain in his temples, Graham shuffled towards the doors, hoping to escape unnoticed. Unfortunately, the red-faced man had already spotted him from the corner of his pulsating eye.

‘You there!’ he shouted. ‘Don’t slouch off. What’s so wrong with you that means you get seen by a doctor before a woman in distress?’

Another man might have cursed his bad luck. Graham, however, simply turned around and answered politely.

‘I’m so sorry. If I’d known your wife was so poorly, I would have let you have my appointment.’

Whatever the red-faced man had expected Graham to say, that wasn’t it. His mouth flapped open and shut a couple of times, before snapping closed in a rather nasty sneer. He jabbed a finger into Graham’s weedy chest.

‘Oh, this one thinks he’s FUNNY, does he?’

The man’s sharp nail dug into Graham’s shirt. More pain spiked across Graham’s skull, and he winced involuntarily. This movement proved to be a mistake, for it gave the man the opening he required to truly let rip.

‘It’s people like YOU (jab) who make me SICK (jab – jab), acting so selfish and RUDE (jab – jab – jab) and really, I should – LISTEN WHEN I AM TALKING!’

Graham had been trying to listen, if only to get the whole thing over with. But he was currently prevented by the sudden agonizing feeling of his bones being boiled, his skull being sliced apart, and his brain mangled in a blender and reassembled by jabbing, clawed fingers.

He tried to explain this to his scarlet-faced accuser, but all that came from his throat was a gurgle, followed by a whimper. The ripping sensation continued, and, with a sudden loud popping in his ears, his limbs lost all feeling and he collapsed onto the waiting room floor with a sad, pathetic thump.

#

Graham woke up again with an equally pathetic sigh, and immediately wished he’d stayed unconscious. A hideous number of people were leaning over him.

‘It’s alright, sir,’ said the receptionist, still as bored looking as ever. ‘Just keep lying down.’

The red-faced man snorted. ‘See, I told you. He’s perfectly fine.’

‘Perfectly fine?!’ cried the woman next to him, presumably the agonised wife. ‘For God’s sake, Gerald, you could have killed him.’

‘It wasn’t my fault. How was I to know the man was so weakly built?’

Graham tried to respond, but the voices and faces blurred in a thick, soupy fog.

Oh good, he thought, shutting his eyes and allowing the peace to flow through him. The agony in his skull had gone now, and his brains were mercifully unboiled. Perhaps he could stay here a little while longer…

‘Hello, Mr Brayton!’

The doctor’s loud, booming voice ripped through the mist. Graham opened his eyes, resigning himself to being poked and prodded.

But his own great shock, Graham found himself leaping to his feet and crying. ‘I won’t do it! I won’t do it!’ And with the speed of a man who might well one of those keto-eating, Lycra-wearing runner types, he legged it from the building.

#

Back in the safety of his one-bedroom flat, Graham hunched over his kitchen chair. He’d never run so much in his life, not even in dreaded cross-country lessons. His chest hurt a little, and his mouth tasted like he’d swallowed several screws.

Still, he felt oddly good about the whole thing. Strangely alive.

Graham stared at his hands. They were oddly fascinating, in a way they had never been fascinating before: the ovals of his trimmed nails. The faint brown hairs around his knuckles. Even the red blotches of eczema he could never fully rid himself of were a bewitching tapestry.

Graham had never been the sort of person who cared about his appearance, something previous girlfriends had often despaired over, yet now he could think of little else. Stepping into the bathroom, he went to the mirror and took in his 48-year-old face, with its muddy brown eyes, mousey hair cut practically short, a weak chin and a thin nose. There were crow’s feet around his eyes and a faint ginger freckling on his cheeks.

Not great, he thought, but not bad. Not as bad as it could have been.

It was an odd thing to think, but Graham let that pass. He traced a finger across his cheekbone.

Stupid doctors. How dare they speak to me so rudely.

Graham’s finger stopped in its tracks. The unusual thought had arrived unbidden, arriving from somewhere beyond his own head. And yet he found it oddly compelling.

You let them push you around. You shouldn’t, you know. You should stand up for yourself.

Graham frowned, increasing his unsightly wrinkles. Where were these thoughts coming from? Was this a symptom of concussion? Perhaps he should go and get himself checked out.

You don’t need a doctor, man. You need a spine.

‘No, I don't,’ Graham found himself saying aloud.

The odd voice in his own mind surprised him. Still, he supposed, it had been a trying day. Better book another GP appointment, just to be on the safe side.

Graham drifted from the bathroom and plonked himself down in front of his computer. It was an old thing, long in need of upgrade, protesting at the mere effort of function. He tapped the desk idly with his short nails, and the beat drummed in time to the pulse in his head.

With stiff fingers, Graham typed the name of his GP surgery into his search engine. His intention was to book another GP appointment to discuss the strange symptoms, but instead, he found his cursor drifting to the “reviews” sidebar. Almost without thinking, he began to type:

Appalled with the service I received. Waited four weeks for an appt, only to have Dr make unfounded assumptions about my health and behaviour, and make jokes, without addressing my issue. Was shouted at by extremely rude and aggressive patient and staff did not intervene. Worst doctors surgery I’ve ever experienced!!

Graham stared at the words. They didn’t feel like his words. They didn’t read like him at all. And yet he felt a sort of elation upon writing them, a vindicated euphoria that sung through his entire body.

Smiling slightly, Graham selected one star and clicked post.

#

The next morning, Graham woke to find six people had liked his review.

Humming a little, he washed up last night’s dinner things and put them away. His usual gentle placidness had been disturbed by something new.

Was this… happiness?

Yes, he supposed it might be. Well, he oughtn’t to get used to it. Something always came along, one way or another, to remind him how the world worked. And what could one do but—?

Graham glanced at the computer.

Yes. What could one do.

The rest of the work day passed ordinarily enough. He arrived at the office on time to complete his administrative job to an adequate fashion, exchanging enough pleasantries with his colleagues not to be considered rude, though not enough to be over-friendly.

Usually such a day would satisfy him, but today it was irksome. He kept drumming on the side of his desk, grinding his teeth, and staring out the window. He couldn’t shake the sense that this was all somehow beneath his station.

On the way home, he remembered he was out of a few things, and since he’d already passed the supermarket, decided to try the local corner shop.

A bored teenager stood at the counter, or rather slumped, browsing on his phone. He had that tousled at the top, short on the sides haircut that all young people seemed to have these days, and Graham felt unreasonably irritated by it. Either grown your hair out fully or cut it short, he thought angrily.

As if trying to avoid his own brain, Graham busied himself by looking for the items on his list. The only bread left in the shop was white sliced, which he didn’t really like, and the cheese came pre-grated, and would be all hard and rubbery. Still, he put them in his basket and grabbed a pint of semi-skimmed.

The milk was seven days past expiry.

Graham picked up another bottle, and another. Each had the same use by date, even the whole milk, which he found cloying but would drink in a pinch, and the skimmed, which tasted like dishwater.

Silently, Graham put the milk back. He would do without. Perhaps he could get used to that bitter black tea aftertaste.

But as he tried to walk to the counter, a sudden rushing in his ears held him fast.

Why should he go without milk? Wasn’t it unsafe, to be selling expired goods? It was probably breaking the law.

Huffing in a manner that he’d never previously heard from his own mouth, Graham marched to the bored teenager.

‘Excuse me,’ he demanded.

The teenager didn’t look up from his phone.

Graham cleared his throat. ‘Excuse me,’ he said, a little louder.

The teenager still didn’t look up.

‘Excuse. Me.’

Finally, the eyes of the terminally underwhelmed employee met his. They were flat, and yet somehow slightly mocking as he drawled, ‘Can I help you?’

‘Yes, you can,’ said Graham, with as much wither as he could muster. ‘This milk is out of date.’

The boy waved a hand in the general direction of the fridge, as if to indicate he should take another.

‘All the milk is out of date. By seven days.’

The teenager shrugged.

Graham felt a clutching in his stomach, a rising drumbeat against his neck. His right hand clenched around the handle of the shopping basket, balling into a fist.

He left the shop without any of his items. He’d decided he was going to let it go, the way he always did, and yet when he got home and saw the computer just sitting there, he couldn’t resist.

The machine once again creaked and whirred into life. His fingers were like lightning across the keyboard, fixing upon the point of his ire:

Avoid this shop like the PLAGUE.

I am still shaking from my experience this evening. All I wanted was to buy some bread, milk and cheese, a task that shouldn’t be a trial in this day and age. The service was dire and variety of goods on offer sorely lacking, but that was not the worst of it.

I was aghast to discover that not one bottle, but the entire stock of milk in the establishment was a whole week out of date!!

Keen to ensure no other customers bought the unsafe products, I went to alert the shopkeeper, expecting a swift and apologetic response. But NOTHING could be further from the truth.

I was met with abject and utter rudeness by a callow youth who could not have been older than 15. Should such a young employee be left alone with responsibility for customers? He was clearly incapable of the task. The boy barely looked up from his phone, and was entirely unbothered when I pointed out the real safety issue, and the risk of food poisoning.

Safe to say, I shall never be setting foot in this establishment again!!!

Graham leaned back in his chair, breathless. The diatribe of self-righteous outrage had once again poured out, as if beyond his own volition. It felt incredible.

Why shouldn’t I continue, he thought, heart thudding in his chest. For too long he’d been pushed about, sidelined, made a fool of by every Tom, Dick and shopkeeper. Well, not anymore. There was a world of wrongs to right.

And he, Graham Brayton, was the one to do it.

#

“Terrible barbers, poor customer care, haircut not what I asked for and made me look like a convict – one star.”

“Worst council I have ever had the misfortune of living under. Complained about the uneven pavement three times in the last week and still no response, someone could have an accident – one star.”

“Did not give me the requested discount even though clearly advertised – one star.”

“Customers who arrived after me served first and when I asked to see the manager, was laughed at – one star.”

“Coffee tepid, sandwich inedible, tastebuds forever ruined – one star.”

“Waitress looked at me oddly, nasty woman – one star.”

“Man took the seat I was CLEARLY just about to sit in and I asked him to move, only raised my voice a little to be heard over the din of school children and told to get off bus – one star.”

“Unresponsive to constructive feedback, worst employer EVER – one star.”

#

Graham rolled off the bed, lurched upright as if puppeteered, and staggered to his computer. His head rang with the injustices of the previous day… all he’d tried to do was point out a few flaws in the company, and how they could be improved. Against all his intentions, the discussion had become very heated. Words were said that couldn’t be taken back. He hardly remembered why he’d been so angry.

Yes you do. Your boss is a tyrant, remember, a tyrant and a dragon. You should be running the show, not her.

Graham clutched at his head. He really wished the new, angry voice of his would go away, just for a few hours, so he could catch up on some shut eye.

But the voice wouldn’t go away. It raced angrily at the thought of his manager. He had to get his own back, somehow.

Yet before he could do anything, a notification popped up.

“Someone has replied to your review.”

Graham drew his knees to his chest. Hunching over the screen like a palely-lit gremlin, he scoured the reply, white knuckling his mouse as if it were the only thing keeping him alive.

Dear HIGHLY valued customer, the review response read.

Thank you ever so much for your review of our little café establishment. We ever so welcome feedback from customers and we do appreciate your generously offered feedback. We also understand your time must be incredibly valuable, given the brevity of your comment and lack of full sentences.

Please, let me, as the humble owner of a family-run business for over twenty years, address your deeply held concerns.

You told us that our coffee was tepid. I do apologise for this, but might I remind sir that hot liquids do decrease in temperature over time, and you insisted upon drinking your beverage after consuming your sandwich, which took no less than twenty-five minutes?

You also graciously informed us that your sandwich is inedible. May I please remind sir that our waitress, my own daughter, provided your sandwich to your personal specifications, on granary bread with no butter or salad, filled with one slice of ham only? My waitress did try to suggest the addition of our award-winning pickle to liven up the meal a little, but sir very strong declined, and reminded her that the customer is always right. The actual quote sir refers only to matters of taste, which in this case is entirely sir’s prerogative.

I must now also refer to your follow up review, which remarked upon the behaviour of my staff. We do pride ourselves in treating each and every customer with due curtesy; please note the due, sir. For as you do not mention in your kindly provided feedback, you came into our café without making a purchase and demanded to speak with me. Our waitress, my daughter, informed you that I was unfortunately unavailable, and could she pass on a message? She did her best to record your complaint, but much of what you said was, unfortunately, not entirely intelligible, though she did her utmost to respond. You then called her a nasty woman and left.

You are, highly valued customer, entitled to complain and to never use our establishment again. But please note, sir, that we are equally entitled to refuse service, and upon this occasion, find ourselves forced to do so.

Please never return to us again.

With kind wishes,

Mavis Matterson, Owner

Graham read the reply, over and over.

There was a part of him, an ever-smaller part of him, that felt shame. But that faint voiced, tremulous Graham was eclipsed by a swell of Hulklike rage.

To be addressed in such a way… to be slandered! He should get the law involved. He should write to the police. To his MP! He should get the whole business shut down, the woman barred from owning a food establishment for good. That would satisfy him, oh yes. To see her laid low.

He scrolled furiously. There were several other one-star reviews for the business, complaining about the food and the rudeness of the staff, and each one of them had been responded to in a similarly lengthy and ill-mannered fashion. What in God’s name, he wondered, had ever happened to good, English customer service?

Graham typed the café name into Google and found himself directed to a social media page.

It was a video of Mavis. She looked about sixty, not bad looking, with short, grey hair and thick black glasses. She was dressed in a neat blouse and cardigan combination, with a smattering of naturalistic make up, giving her a sweet, almost motherly air.

But beneath those painted lips lay sharp teeth.

There, in her video, was a screenshot of his review. Mavis read it aloud to the camera in drippingly sarcastic tones, eyes glinting with glee as she tore him apart. A sea of comments popped up on screen, each one congratulating her for taking on the male “Karens” who were “so keen to knock good businesses down”. Clamours of support peppered the post comments, with promises to make her café their coffee spot of choice, and to give this terrible customer “a piece of their mind” if he dared show his face. “But he won’t,” said one, “because his type are all cowards, hiding behind keyboards”.

Graham grabbed the keyboard of his computer and threw it across the room. It hit the wall with a sad, pathetic thump.

#

After buying a new keyboard, Graham promised himself he would forget about the horrible internet comments and spend the day looking for work. Instead, he spent eight hours learning everything there was to known about Mavis Rachel Matterson.

She had indeed been the owner of Little Ducky Café for the past twenty years, inheriting the business from her father, now deceased. Prior to that, she had been a primary school teacher, a hotel receptionist and, most appallingly, an administrative assistant at the very firm where he, until recently, had worked for. He did not like to think about any connection between himself and this woman, but consoled himself with the fact that it had been in one of the smaller branches, and her position had been more junior.

Since when did I care about job status?

These thoughts were getting so quiet now, echoes from a ghost. He ignored them easily.

Ms Matterson (twice divorced) lived in a two up, two down on a rather nice cul-de-sac. She was on the committee of several local societies (Women’s Institute, Literary, Irish Dancing) but was not on LinkedIn, and had only started posting on social media a year ago, under MsDuckyCafe. Most of her posts were promotional, but the most popular were her so-called “takedowns”, where she laid into unreasonable customers. These attack posts were thinly veiled in fluffy words and pastels, but it was plain to see what she was: a vindictive old goat, who needed taking down a peg or two.

And he would do it, tonight.

On his shopping trip, Graham hadn’t only bought a keyboard. He’d also bought a cricket bat, duct tape, a roll of black plastic bin liners and ropes. He wasn’t exactly sure what he’d do with them, but it had felt good, buying them from different shops, his cap lowered so the CCTV couldn’t see his face. He used cash as well, so his card wouldn’t be traced. It was all very clever.

No… please… I don’t want to hurt anyone…

So small now, that voice. He smiled over its pleading, thinking of his cricket bat meeting Ms Matterson’s skull with one great big smack.

He would give her a piece of his mind, he would. See how she liked that.

#

That night, Graham went for a walk, as he sometimes did of an evening. Only this time, he wore dark clothes, and a hoodie with a cap, and a rucksack stuffed full of his recent purchases, and his brain hummed with thoughts of what he was about to do. The air seemed to crackle with the very anticipation of the moment.

This is better than reviews. The sweet glorious taste of revenge!

He walked down the cul-de-sac, searching for her house. There it was, all pebble-dashed and painted yellow and completely out of keeping with the area, with gnomes in the garden, for God’s sake, ugly, vulgar things. And those lacy net curtains, so old fashioned and unbecoming. Honestly, he ought to smash the whole place down.

Heart thudding the drums of war in his head, Graham pushed the cap down lower and crept to the back of the house. He jumped the fence with surprising agility, landing catlike on the other side. The back garden was equally gnome infested, and the grass was plastic, terrible for drainage. He tiptoed up the gravel path, looking for the room most likely to be her bedroom. He would climb up the drainpipe, break the window lock and catch her by surprise.

Climbing up a drainpipe turned out to be more difficult than he imagined. After several attempts, he only managed to make it two feet off the ground before sliding back down again.

Cursing under his breath, tried the back door handle.

It creaked open.

Hardly able to believe his good fortune and Mavis’s lack of home security, Graham crept into the house. It was dark and quiet, save for the ordinary hums of a house at night. Each noise sounded as loud as a fog horn.

He crept through the kitchen to the hallway. It was dark and shadowy, but what he could see seemed neat and ordered; all the coats on the rack and none of the banister, for example. It was the type of housekeeping one could approve of.

Stop sympathising with her. She’s an evil old hag, remember!

Graham gritted his teeth and made his slow assent up the stairs. It seemed as if every wooden board beneath the soft carpet was conspiring to creak in as loud and obnoxious a way as possible. Several times he stopped dead still, waiting for old Mavis to cry out.

No such alarm call came.

At the top of the stairs, there were three doors. One was half open, revealing an empty bathroom. The other two were closed.

Graham pressed his ear again the first closed door. Sure enough, he could hear the faint sounds of snoring.

The doorknob twisted in Graham’s hand. In the centre of the shadowy bedroom he could make out a bed, and the shape of a woman buried beneath the covers.

The faint snoring sound didn’t stir. Quietly, Graham unzipped his bag and drew out the cricket bat.

You don’t have to do this. Please.

Graham's fingers wrapped around the handle. He’d never been sporty, but he felt the thrill of it now, stepping up into position, readying to deliver the powerful blow. Excitement tingled through his spine.

He was going to do it. He was actually going to do it!

Graham crept up to the side of the bed. Raised the bat in both hands. Readied himself. Brought it down.

It froze in mid-air.

Graham let out a little grunt of frustration as he tried to bring the bat onto Mavis Matterson’s head. But try as he might, the bat would not budge.

I let you ruin my life but I won’t let you hurt her.

The voice was loud now. Louder than it had been for some time. Loud enough to make itself heard.

You were nothing before me, Graham snapped mentally back. Nothing but a spineless sack. A doormat. A worthless excuse for breathing.

Maybe. But still, I won’t let you.

With a cry of outrage, Graham flung himself to the floor. His left hand kept trying to pull the bat from his right, while his right hand gripped onto the bat tightly, fighting off the left. He rolled around on the floor, fighting tooth and nail with himself, knocking into the wardrobe, then the bed side. The thumps and shrieks seemed loud enough to wake the dead.

And yet, by some miracle, Mavis Matterson continued to snore.

At last, a figure rose. Stood there, panting, eyes bright with victory.

‘Well, well,’ it said. ‘So much for Mr Brayton.’

He turned to the bed. Raised the bat high. And then with a final and delicious—

Smack!

– the bat hit the bed with a decidedly muted thump.

Graham pulled back the covers and let out a scream. He grabbed the pillows that had made up the shape of Mavis and threw them to the ground.

‘Oh dear,’ sneered the real Mavis from the doorway, wielding a cast iron pan. ‘Looks like someone needs spectacles.’

Graham stared at Mavis. ‘But… but…’

‘Falling for the old pillow and tape recorder trick,’ said Mavis, with a delighted smirk. ‘Not so clever now, are we?’

Graham’s gaze flicked from the woman’s gleeful expression to her weapon. She was older than him by over a decade, and smaller too, yet there was something about her that was utterly terrifying.

Still, he had faced worse.

He raised the cricket bat and the old woman raised her pan. In her eyes, he thought he saw something flicker, a glimpse of fear and sorrow. But that was soon subsided by an expression of vindictive glee.

The two brought their weapons down in unison, smacking into each other with a terrible clang. Graham and Mavis both reeled backwards, trying to recover their balance, but Graham was quicker. He jumped at Mavis before she could right herself, shoving all his weight down upon her. She snarled and bit his hand.

Graham screamed. In the distraction of the pain, Mavis grabbed the pan again and smashed it against his skull.

Graham rolled on the floor, dazed, but not out cold. He held onto the bat and swung it at her, and it caught the her on the side of the face.

‘You… bastard!’ she screeched.

Blood dribbled from her mouth. She hit him with the pan with surprising force, almost knocking him out. In the foggy confusion, he saw another face in hers. And the small little part of the old Graham that still existed thought:

Not you too…

With a cry, Graham swung the cricket bat into the woman’s skull. There was a horrible crack, followed by silence.

Graham grinned.

‘Who’s a bastard now?’ he shouted. And he began to laugh, a hideous evil cackle.

The pan swung once more, cutting his laughter short.

#

Quiet again, in the spare bedroom of the Matterson’s.

On the floor lay two bodies, one male, late 40s, one female, early 60s. They would be discovered the following lunchtime, when Jo Matterson, aged 27, popped in for a cuppa. Jo would stand in the spare room for several minutes, unable to comprehend what was she seeing, before picking up the phone and saying, in the numbest voice imaginable. ‘You better come. They’ve killed my mother.’

But for now, in these early hours, quiet. Quiet, that is, to the human ear.

A more sensitive sort of person might have come into the room and, without even seeing the bodies, rushed out again, shaking their head and shuddering about a “bad feeling”. A yet more sensitive person might have heard faint scratching, or even whispers.

The fully attuned would have pressed their hands to their ears and begged for mercy.

Above the bodies, invisible to the human eye, hovered two figures. Not poor Graham Brayton and Mavis Matterson, thank goodness, whose true souls had floated off to whatever realm awaited them. These figures were a little less… corporal.

The man was in his twenties, dressed in the fine clothes of a Victorian gentleman, while the woman, large boned and broad, was dressed like a middle-class woman of the 1920s. Both were rather red faced and in the midst of heated battle.

‘How dare you madam,’ bellowed the man. ‘How dare you murder me!’

‘Murder me!’ the woman exclaimed. ‘Oh, my dear sir, I am afraid you are misinformed. It is you sir, you, who has murdered me. But I suppose you are the sort not to see what is right in front of you…’

‘It’s not my fault that carriage mowed me down! Cowards! They would not listen to my arguments!’

‘Oh dear, and look where that got you.’

‘Got you! You ugly old hag, your own sister poisoned you. Fed up of all your vicious letters all around town.’

‘My dear sir, I was merely explaining to people what they ought to already be aware of, in the politest of terms—’

‘Polite! Hah!’

On and on went their ghostly argument, while time tiptoed around it, unobtrusive of its rage. The house was sold, and a new family moved in, a married couple with one son and another child on the way. They didn’t question why the place was well under market rate – simply snapped up the bargain.

Weeks then months then years slipped away. At last, the argument began to peter out and the restless spirits, growing bored, began to look about themselves. Where there had once been an empty spare bed, they found to their surprise a middle-aged man and woman, lying side by side. Their expressions were peaceful in sleep, and their arms wrapped around each other: the picture of love. It was almost too easy an opportunity for such seasoned and malevolent ghosts.

Still, they thought. One couldn’t complain.

---

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