23 Millbrook Lane was an unassuming little house. A two-bedroomed terrace in a row of identical two-bedroomed terraces. Nothing on the outside suggested the horror that was going on inside. The curtains were pulled, and only a single, bare bulb shone in the hallway. There was a shred of fabric caught on the hedge, and a trickle of red ran across the step. There were screams from inside, and the police officer knocked hard, urgently. A haggard-faced woman opened the door, desperation in her eyes. She opened her mouth to speak, and then froze as footsteps came up behind her, from the shadowy hall. A blonde four-year-old grabbed the uniformed leg, sobbing. The police officer smiled sympathetically, as she scooped up her daughter, and picked up the wet crepe paper that had stained the step. There comes a point in every child's party when it's time to go home, however sad the guests are to leave.
Writing short fiction, monologues and plays