THE UNFINISHED STORY
No-one has lived here since the terrible thing that happened in the forties. The war had just started and the woman who lived here with her writer husband came from Hamburg (she pronounced it ‘haybag’ which made people laugh) .
Anyhow one day the postie noticed that the parcel he’d left for her outside the door the day before was still there and he pushed open the door (nobody locked their doors in those days, still don’t, most of them) and went in and called out her name ( she and he were on first name terms ).
Perhaps they had gone over to the mainland, he thought, to visit the writer’s parents in Fraserburgh more than was likely (the father had his own trawler, so folk said) and he was just about to leave was the postie when he heard a strange noise from upstairs, not a cry, not a groan but something in between, the sound you yourself might make with a bag or a pillow-case or a letter-sack pulled over your head and not having your hands free to pull it off.
So he went upstairs to that room high up on the left (you can just see the window) and