Freda was the wife of the publican. Her job was to look after the day to day running of the hotel’s accommodation side of things. A few days before Christmas she found the cook lying on the floor behind the kitchen door. He was as drunk as a fart.
She sacked the cook and, since there wasn’t time before Christmas to find someone else, she did the cooking herself.
It was three in the morning. Freda was working late, for the next day was Christmas. For some reason she looked up and noticed the kitchen door knob turning. Not a sound. Turning. Not a creak. Slowly turning. It was almost at opening position.
Freda froze. Silence.
The door opened.