"You're £2 short" Danny said.
The newsagents always has a weird smell, something Danny couldn't quite put his finger on. Rows of papers and magazines flanked him on either side. A central divide was stocked with sweets and chocolate. An old dilapidated fridge buzzed and whirred as it fought to keep the drinks cool. It wasn't necessary though it was always cold here.
Mr Jones put down his newspaper and leaned over the counter. The man was huge, his arms were as big as Danny. The old man sneered.
"That's what you owe me" he growled.
"For what?" Danny yelled, temporarily forgetting who he was talking to.
Mr Jones' face reddened.
"You took, two bars of dairy milk." He didn't need to yell, his voice naturally boomed.
Of course Danny took nothing, Mr Jones always found new and creative ways to not pay his paperboys. They all new it.
Danny said nothing.
"Are we sorted then?" The old man glared down his glasses balanced precariously on his short pudgy nose. White whisps of hair coming from just above his ears like horns, the only hair on his bald wrinkled head.
"Yeah" Danny murmured.
"Good." Mr Jones replied. He hoisted another bag filled with papers and dumped it on the counter
"Jake didn't show up so you have to take his route. You can have his pay too."
Mr Jones waited ready and poised to squash any complaints. Danny didn't bother.
"Sure" he said resigned to his fate. He hated Jake's route it included "Ash cottage" and he had hated that place since he was little. It wasn't the building itself it just had a feeling about the place, something ominous and foreboding. It wasn't messy or run down, there were more houses on his estate that looked worse, it just seems wrong somehow.
He walked out the shop, by the window was a notice board, two pictures on their, asking regarding missing children. Sally and Chris. Both delivered papers too, Danny knew them, sometimes they ran in to each other picking up their papers for the day. He didn't know them well because they went to the posh school but they seemed nice. He hoped they were safe, he hoped Jake was too an was just off sick or forgot about his route.
Danny worked his way through the addresses scrawled in Mr Jones' incomprehensible writing. It wasn't a bad route. The houses were quite nice and there weren't many dogs to bark or even chase him. It was summer and he was off school and on his bike. He didn't mean the extra time to ride, but he wanted to be finished soon so he could spend some time with his friends. He wondered if they'd want to played some Fortnite, he wasn't great at that game but he didn't fancy football. Perhaps they could get the bus to the cinema?
He left Ash cottage till last. It was the one he least wanted to do and it was the furthest out. He started cycling over, his trepidation growing as he got closer and closer he rounded the corner for the street when a car pulled out of nowhere.
The world was inverted as we swerved and hit the curb, launching him over his handlebars, he landed in crumple on the pavement.
".. cyclists!" Shouted the man from the car as they sped off. Danny didn't catch the first word but he could imagine.
"Idiot!" He yelled but the driver was long gone.
He sat for a moment, his jeans were torn, there was a bit of blood, not too much, but it hurt. His bike was ok, luckily the wheel wasn't broken but he was in no state to cycle.
Tears welled up in his eyes. He was fed up, fed up of the paper route, of impatient drivers, of Mr Jones and stupid Ash Cottage.
He sighed and pulled himself up.
Still have to finish the route or Mr Jones will take the lot.
He picked up his bike and limped to the house.
When he got there he stopped and looked at ash cottage. A small place, single floor, it has beautiful white walls covered in ivy like tendrils threatening to pull it under. The stone slab path has bushes either side, not wild but a little overgrown, there was grass either side flowerbed surrounding them like a moat. Some flowers looked good, others weren't fairing so well.
It's just a house. Danny said to himself and walked slowly up the path.
He fished out the last paper and leant his bike against the hedge.
He felt uneasy, the same feeling that he had since his mum would take him past this house. That something was wrong. Something was off.
He approached the door.
His hands were sweating it was making the papers ink bleed in to his palms.
He readied the paper and prepare to post it through the letterbox when the door opened.
