A woman, who was standing behind an iron gate, had caught the neighbourhood's attention. She spoke in and uproarious voice.
'I will not be patient. Something wiggy is going on, and I intend to find out.'
She wandered off into the night, whilst passing a coat, which hung a black painted gate, left to it's door. It was Rhonda Calling who lived across on Bayswater Street, in London. She was an elderly lady with a waling cane, who undeniable made the impression of a woman, who had secrets to hide herself.
After the street was completely deserted, a cranking doorknob made of ivory, was twisting back and forth. The echo of a murkily voice had r