Timothy Lea - Confessions from a Haunted House

Wittering spun round like we were playing Grandma’s Footsteps and he wanted to catch us all out. His eyes blazed. ‘Fortunate lady and gentlemen,’ said he. ‘Let there be no beating about the bush. Let the bugle call sound. Let the muezzin call the glad tiding to the multitude from the highest tower. Let there be no impediment to the delivery of the glorious news. Let there be no shilly-shallying or dilly-dallying. Let there be no wasting of time in coming to the point—’

He went on in this vein for what felt like hours until, just when I thought I was going to scream, the telephone rang and he kicked it onto the floor. That seemed to buck him up a bit. ‘Yes, my dear,’ he warbled, giving Harper the full benefit of his beautifully capped gnashers. ‘You are a very fortunate young lady. No doubt your much lamented father told you how he became estranged from his English forbears and went to seek his fortune in the New World?’

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