The De’aths lived alone in Marchmont Manor, on top of Woburn Hill. Although, their abode resembled more closely to a castle than a manor. They hosted a monthly tea party- each time inviting a couple from the town to join them. This month, the Merdads received their long awaited invitation.
They arrived at the manor- in awe at the gables and turrets that towered over them. The inside amazed them further. On a clear night, like tonight, the moon would slither through the gap in the drapery, illuminating the manor with a cold, blue hue.
The Merdads and the De’aths sat around the oak table. Mrs Merdad wore a green satin dress and Mr Merdad sat very still in his suit.
‘Henry, darling, doesn’t Mrs Merdad look lovely?’ said Mrs De’ath to her husband.
‘Indeed!’ answered Mr De’ath.
Mrs Merdad did not reply. Her head cocked to the left.
‘Ted, you’re a lucky man,’ Mr De’ath joked to Mr Merdad.
Mr Merdad stared at him blankly.
‘Our company are awfully quiet tonight, aren’t they, Henry?’ said Mrs De’ath, pouring out a pot of Darjeeling.
The truth was, conversations at the De’ath’s were always rather one sided.
The Merdads grew stiff in their chairs.
Mrs De’ath stirred her tea. Her spoon clinked as she looked, from Mr Merdad, to Mrs Merdad, and back again. Both looked rather pale.
Suddenly, Mr Merdad flopped forwards- his head splattering into the finger sandwiches.
‘I do enjoy these tea parties, Henry,’ said Mrs De’ath, sipping her tea. ‘Perhaps we should make them a fortnightly occurrence?’
‘Splendid idea!’ said Mr De’ath. ‘I’ll just get some tissue, Mrs Merdad’s neck is dripping onto the Persian carpet.’
Mrs De’ath shook her head. ‘That’s the only problem- it’s always a pain to clean up once we’ve buried them.’