The Lady of Storkton Road

Storkton's new resident

The Lady of Storkton Road is a completely fictional tale, and any resemblance to real life people, places or events, is entirely coincidental. That said, this is my first attempt at a Wattpad story so, I hope that you enjoy it!

. . .

"Is it true? I heard from the Mortimer kid down the street, but he'll say anything!"
"Doubt it, probably just Charlie spreading shit again."
"Nah mate, look at the sign!"
No one quite believes the rumours and wagging tongues on Storkton Road. Back in 2007, fake news and tall tales were a commodity, rampant throughout the community. But the evidence of our own two eyes is surely to be believed - and there, clear as day, was the proof - shining, a beacon of gossip and surprise. A brightly emblazoned "Sold" sign, confirming the disbelieving words on everybody's mind: "Someone has bought number 12."

Number 12, Storkton Road, the abandoned house with the yellow trim, had served as little more than a child's playground for the past four years, ever since the previous resident Mr. Carigold abandoned it unexpectedly. It was a castle, a pirate ship, a secret hideout, or even a fortress; but not one of solitude, as all the local children wanted to play in number 12. But until now, no one had wanted to live there. The local children seemed simply awash with the peculiar news as they gazed, fixated; quietly mourning the passing of their childhood haunt. Who was the mysterious unknown figure, seemingly tearing number 12 from their grasp? And why, above all, would anyone even want to buy such a dilapidated old wreckage of a home? It was precisely its broken, haunted appearance that had made it so appealing to the local youth, and now some weirdo was coming to take that away! Before long, this curiosity became too much for the children, and gossip once again ran wild as they speculated on the new tenant of number 12, Storkton Road.
"I heard he's a vampire! Big sharp teeth, likes old haunted houses like that!"
"Nah, he's a ghost! The old place probably seems like an upgrade to him."

Of course, I was the centre of all these rumours, sunk deep into the centre of an intricate web of gossip, starting the rumours, spinning them into an epidemic, and spreading them to the four corners of Storkton Road. In my infinite youthful wisdom, it had clearly never occurred to me that spreading rumours was in any way a frowned-upon pastime. I just saw it as a morsel of harmless fun; a way to keep me entertained through the otherwise dreary lifestyle of a Storker (that's what we called ourselves, the residents of Storkton Road.)

My mother was a teacher, and a good one too, though you wouldn't think it when you saw the little shit I had become. I lived a tyrannical life, languishing on my throne of independence. Life was stress free back then, I breezed through it, bossing around the other Storker children, and proudly, carefully constructing my reputation as the local bully. Especially Andrea Cole - I bullied her constantly, thinking nothing would ever come of it. She's my boss now, so... oops.

Poor Andrea always received the brunt of my overtly sexist belief in my own superiority; so I'm sure you can imagine my shock, and disbelief when my rumours about the new inhabitant of 12, Storkton Road fell short in one key detail. As a large Rolls Royce pulled up into the driveway of number 12, I was flabbergasted to see the glare, and hear the click of an expensive pair of jet black high heels, piercing the paving stones and shattering everything I ever thought I knew about the biological makeup of those successful enough to own a Rolls Royce. I was transfixed by the sophisticated fur coat and long brown hair of the new inhabitant of Number 12, as she gracefully maneuvered her way out of the Rolls and surveyed her surroundings with a high and mighty gaze. That was one mystery solved, and several well-crafted rumours disproven, as the new inhabitant of Number 12 proved to be slightly less masculine than I for one had anticipated.

Once I had come to my senses, the first thing I thought was how stuck up, high and mighty she seemed. The irony of that thought had evidently not occurred to me. She seemed to hold herself aloof from the sky itself, drawing herself up to a staggering 6ft as she towered judgmentally over everyone and everything associated with Storkton Road. As she whirled around with a flashy swish of her coat, all I could do is imagine the expression of distaste painted all over her facial features as she set eyes on the house she had just bought. She drew a hand up, presumably to cover her face with it, and drew out a long, long sigh. But, not to be defeated, the lady began gingerly swishing her way up the gravel path and to the splintered front door. Who knew what she would say when she saw the mess from the local children all over the interior of Number 12. But I was not to find out, as she paused before sliding the key into the lock. In one deft swish, she flicked around a perfect 180° and levelled her gaze directly on me. Her eyes, large and deep brown, narrowed an almost cartoonish amount, as she surveyed her watcher with a look of obvious disdain.
"Evenin'," I greeted her. My first mistake; it was 2:00 PM.
"Charlie Cole, I presume?" Her voice was surprisingly light, soft and musical - but her tone still betrayed her distaste: "I've heard about you. The local misfit. Got most of Storkton Road wrapped around your little finger haven't you? Well, how about I save you the trouble?"
I returned her gaze innocently as she approached me from the other side of the ruined garden wall, and crouched down to meet my gaze.
"Those tactics won't work on me."

Another thing learned, the new resident thought she was a bad-ass. Little did I know; she really was one. But one mystery was yet to be solved: Why on earth would someone rich enough to own a Rolls be moving into a dump like Storkton Road? Of course, if you were to travel there nowadays, it would be an entirely different story. But the rich and illustrious future of Storkton Road, and the mysterious new neighbour living in number 12; is a story yet to be told. So, just bear with me, I'm getting to it.