Diana stood on the second-floor landing, smiling down on the patrons of the White Horse Inn.
A good crowd for a Saturday, she thought. All because of me.
Granted, the White Horse served a decent meal, and the brew far superior to that of the other watering holes in the neighborhood. But Diana knew they came to see her.
The pub had been a family business for over a 100-years. At 16, she took her place at the bar, serving beer and bitters. Many a young man frequented the inn, in hope of attracting her favor. But Diana only had eyes for Charles Stroud, a gutsy military man stationed nearby. She fell in love, he into lust and soon they married.
Charles turned out to be ladies’ man. His unfaithfulness broke her heart. A rope broke her neck.
Diana placed the noose around her neck, like she did 75 years before. The clamor of voices quelled as all eyes turned toward the stairs. Most would be disappointed, she knew. Not everyone can see a ghost.
Tomorrow Diana would once again go to the old church next door and confess her sin. Father Michael would be waiting.
Sunday Photo Fiction is a weekly challenge to write a short, 200-word story inspired by a photograph. Many thanks go to Al Forbes for supplying this week’s photo.