I don’t know about other single women, but me? I attract all sorts of oddities. Just last night, for example, I was lying in bed, sighing. I’d read too much news, eaten too many pies, and was wallowing in misery, as one does.
Then I heard a faint whining from behind the wardrobe. A tiny, pitiful little voice.
“Fleas?” I wondered. “They wrote about a flea epidemic in London. Surely they haven’t reached Sheffield yet. Must be exhausted.”
After a few minutes, the “fleas” stopped whining and started scratching at the floor.
“I’ll get up and smack you,” I lied.
No chance of moving after a whole plate of pies. Heaven forbid I need the loo—I’d have to roll there.
“Don’t smack me,” the “fleas” politely requested.
“Talking,” I mused through the pie-induced haze. “So not fleas. Must be the neighbour’s lost his mind. Then again, who hasn’t these days? Fine, me. I’ve got nothing to lose mine over, unlike everyone else.”
The scratching stopped, and in the dim light, something tall and shaggy began creeping toward me. My eyesight’s rubbish, so I squinted, trying to figure out three things: Had the pies been the perfect sleeping pill, and I was already dreaming?
Were those three ears or three horns? And since when did our building have a mystery neighbour this tall? I keep track of the tall ones—I’ve got a collection.
“William Geoffrey?” I ventured.
“Cold.” The beanpole answered, then promptly smacked its forehead into the ceiling lamp. “Owwww!”
“Then who?”
“Old Man Whatnot,” the lanky thing giggled, stretching out long, spindly black claws and going, “WOOO!”
“I painted my nails black for Halloween once. Is that gel or your natural claws?”
“Natural,” it huffed.
“Bet you struggle picking your nose with those.”
“Wait—you’re not scared?”
It leaned in close, and that’s when I saw—three ears. Two on the sides, and one odd lump on the temple, like a giant knob.
“I’ve got a book due next week and only three pages written. Plus the mortgage, plus the divorce. I’m a grown woman, love. Scare me with saggy jowls if you must.”
“Word is, you didn’t even scream at five. Smacked one of ours with a pot—his head’s still won’t straight.”
“Then why’re you here?”
“Cosy.”
“That’s the pies. Want some?”
“Yes.”
“Fetch ’em yourself, I’m not moving.”
The horror-faced visitor vanished like a shadow into the kitchen, returning with tea (poured into my favourite mug, no less!), pies, and sandwiches. It even clutched an apple in its maw—just like me, but with thicker hair.
“Wantsay?” it offered, holding out a plate.
“Eh?”
“Are you having some? Help yourself, I took plenty.”
“Would love to, but no room.”
“Shame—looked like you had the capacity of a boa in bifocals.”
“Cheers. Get in.”
I shifted over, and we lay there a while. It was nice—the night, the munching, the smell of pies. What more does one need for peace of mind and body?
“Maybe pop down to Mrs. Henderson on the third floor? She’s elderly, doesn’t ask for much.”
“Was there last night. She threw a stool at me.”
“Ah. That explains the lump.”
“Yep.”
And so we lay another half-hour, each sighing over our troubles.
Might join ’em, honestly. Sounds grand, drifting through strangers’ flats, scoffing free pies. Just need something sturdy for the head—a saucepan, perhaps.
Sometimes, the best company comes in the strangest forms—and a shared pie makes even monsters feel like friends.
