Thread by @TheThreadTweets

PUMPKIN SPICE LATTE - a Twitter Tale for Halloween
(Follow the thread . . .)

She sat in her usual coffee shop.
At her usual table.
At the usual time.
But something was different . . .

She glanced around the cafe.
The steamer steamed, the babies screamed, the red-faced, fat-fingered woman stabbed angrily at her laptop.
Everything exactly the same as every other day.
Except for one thing.
The large, dark-haired man sitting on the other side of her table.

She’d been coming to this coffee shop for years. No one had ever sat down at her table.
He didn’t say anything.
Didn’t ask if the seat was free.
Didn’t say a word.
He just sat down.
And stared straight at her.
Straight into her soul.

Her eyes lowered nervously to her coffee then flicked briefly back up to the face opposite.
His eyes were grey, his face greyer.
Long, bony fingers locked together on the table, shoulders hunched, like a giant bird of prey.
Still.
Silent.
Strange.
And yet . . . familiar.

She shuddered. Only a few moments had passed but it felt like she’d been there for days . . .

Wait a minute!
Damn it!
She had an hour to get this thing written and emailed off!
Suddenly, unexpectedly - yet still annoyingly politely - she heard herself say to the stranger “I’m really sorry but I have to work. There are plenty of empty tables. Why are you sitting here?”

He said nothing.
Just kept on staring.
Leaning over the table.
Invading her personal space - physical and mental.
Not so much manspreading as manhunching.
“Fine!” she said.
She grabbed her coffee and laptop bag and stumbled awkwardly and angrily to the nearest empty table . . .

“Unbelievable!” she said under her breath as she slammed her cup onto her new table and slid into her new seat.
She took a deep, calming breath and opened her laptop.
The screen woke but instead of the usual bright butterfly image there was a face.
A grey face.
Staring at her.

She shoved the screen sharply down.
Then slowly raised it again.
His face was still there.
His cold grey eyes boring into her mind.
She blinked.
And then allowed herself the briefest, fragile smile.
This wasn’t some weird apparition - it was just one of those pop-up news stories!

She sighed and stroked down the screen until a brief bold headline appeared under the stranger’s image . . .

POLICE SEEK COFFEE SHOP KILLER

She stared shivering at the stark, dark words for several minutes before finally casting a nervous glance across the room . . .

He was gone.
She stared around.
So was the red-faced woman.
And the screaming babies.
Silence
At last
She took a slow sip of her pumpkin spice latte and rested her fingers on her keyboard.
To work
But before she could begin, she found herself scrolling down beneath the photo . .

‘Mr Abbot (above), of no fixed abode, was one of six victims found slaughtered in Carla’s Coffee Shop on 31st October. The only clue police have to the murderer’s identity is a paper serviette found at the scene, bearing the lipstick-scrawled words . .
‘Silence. At last’

THE END