EXCERPT FROM THE DIARY OF MISS EUNICE GRUBBE

 Miss Eunice Grubbe, a retired dinner lady with a steel perm and a sensible cagoule, lives alone in a cottage overlooking the old playing field. She’s not one for flights of fancy, which makes this all the more unsettling…

EXCERPT FROM THE DIARY OF MISS EUNICE GRUBBE
Entry dated: Thursday 17th October (year unclear — the pages are yellowed and the handwriting unusually shaky)

It was gone half-past nine, and I’d just been round the back with the torch to make sure the bins weren’t being tampered with again. You know what those youths are like — always poking about with their fizzy drinks and no respect for chicken bones.

Anyway, I came round the side and was locking the gate when I heard it — not the usual village night sounds (Mr Hackle’s dog coughing, the wind playing about in the guttering) but a proper hiss of brakes and the low growl of a heavy engine idling.

Now, I haven’t seen a bus down Upper Wintling Road since they diverted the route in '92 after that business with the coachload of Belgians and the low bridge. But there it was, clear as anything, through the hedge — a red double-decker, parked just across from the field where the Brownies used to do their marching.

All the lights were on inside, but it was empty. No driver. No passengers. I stood and watched it a moment. It should have looked inviting. Familiar, even. But it didn’t. It felt... wrong. Not threatening, exactly, but like something pretending to be ordinary. Like when you see a scarecrow that’s too good at smiling.

I was about to turn away, go inside, pretend I’d imagined it, when the doors opened with that huffing sound. Not a soul in sight. And then — I kid you not — the bell rang. Twice.

I stepped back. I’m not proud of it, but I ran. Got in, bolted the door, didn’t look out the window. Couldn’t bring myself to. Not even when the sound of the engine faded like it was heading off down lanes that don’t exist anymore.

I’ve lived here 74 years and I’ve never been afraid of a vehicle. But that… thing… wasn’t here to take you to the shops.

I won’t speak of it at the WI. They’d only laugh, or worse, nod like they knew. But I’m writing it down. Just in case.

E.G.