The Mystery Home Help

Gemma turned the key and pushed the door inwards as she stepped into her hallway. She stopped in her tracks, puzzled by the absence of the perennial bills and flyers that were normally strewn across the doormat. They were neatly piled up on the small table to the right, next to a lone glove and some loose coins. She recoiled as she quickly tried to decide which of the two theories were right. Either someone had been in her house or she was losing her mind.

She gingerly tiptoed down the corridor, clutching her hand bag just above her head, ready to strike out. Tubes and jars of lip gloss and hand cream jingled and she realized the bag served little purpose as a weapon. The only other items in the bag were a mobile phone, a small brolly and a wallet. The bathroom door banged shut and she almost fainted with fear.

“Who’s there?” she called out in a stern voice. The wind chimes in the living room rang out a melody.
“Get a hold of yourself Gemma,” she muttered to herself. She opened the bathroom door and saw that the small window was open. It was always open. She reckoned it was too small for anyone to come in through. Half laughing to herself, she peered behind the shower curtain.
“No Hitchcock moment for me today,”she said in a relieved voice.

She kicked off her comfortable Clarks shoes and reached into the corridor closet for her cozy toweling slippers. She walked into the kitchen, put her bag on the table and stared, mouth open at the vase of mixed flowers on the kitchen counter. Orange Asiatic lilies teasingly poked through the white and yellow chrysanthemums and pale pink freesia. She never bought flowers. The vase had been a birthday present from an old friend and had sat empty on the kitchen counter for years.

She reached for the phone to call the police and then realized how absurd the situation was. Looking around the flat to check if anything was missing, she was stunned to see that her bedroom which was always in disarray was now tidy. The bed was made and her pyjamas neatly folded and left on top. Her clothes from the day before had been picked up from the floor and hang over the back of an armchair. Her bedside reading was stacked up in an orderly fashion on the bedside table.

She sat down on the edge of the bed and tried to collect her thoughts.
“Officer, someone’s been in my flat and they’ve put my mail away, put flowers in my vase and tidied up my bedroom,”
She burst into a semi hysterical laughter. They’ll definitely send the men in white coats over.
For some reason a flash of the Goldilocks story came into my mind.
“Someone’s been eating my porridge,” she said aloud.
Then it occurred to her that if this wasn’t her going mad, this could be quite a nice situation. Someone coming in and doing the chores for nothing. But nothing is free. But what if they were still around, hiding, watching. She jumped off the bed and looked underneath it. Then she flung open the wardrobe doors. Still no one.

It might be a pervert she thought. Or a psychopath. How did they get in? She made for the entrance and double locked the door. She returned to the kitchen, put the kettle on and sat down, the cordless phone in her hand as she tried to decide whether she should call the police or her mother.