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Chapter 06
The man who had shot the hole in the notice board was perched precariously amongst the branches of the old oak tree by the riverbank just beyond the end of Amelia-Rose's garden.
He drew a sharp breath of satisfaction as he saw the shot strike the notice board successfully and edged himself around into a more comfortable position. His camouflage jacket scraped noisily against the musty bark of the old tree and he froze until he was sure nobody had heard him.
Life was good today. Even the chuckling sound of the river flowing only a few feet away mocked the woman and congratulated him. He gloated over the growing sensation of power he already felt over this foolish young woman who had come to live alone in this deserted cottage.
She was the best yet! Not only pretty but also by herself. Since he'd discovered the cottage five years ago, he'd watched the occupants come and go. Up to now they'd always been couples. As his visits to watch the cottage had become more frequent, his fascination had grown. It had become his hobby, his personal soap opera. And it was he who was making up the story - it was he who was playing with real life.
When the cottage fell empty, he would still occasionally visit. Sometimes, he would break in and move from room to room like a ghost, listening to the creaking floorboards and fingering any remnants of personal property he could find.
What they thought or why they moved out, he did not know. What he did know was that he could make it easy for them or hard and then, eventually, they all moved on.
The water supply would make them sick, Windows would be broken, a tree would fall down and crush the new greenhouse that they'd so lovingly constructed and filled with expensive plants from the local garden center. Their motor vehicles would develop electrical faults and flat tires. The bad luck would just go on and on.
Eventually they would go. It was inevitable - and it was right. He didn't pity them. The cottage was his stage and the performers inside were mere puppets. They were marionettes in the hands of a skilful master. They had no value or purpose except to give him enjoyment. At times, he wished his art could be revealed to the world. But the world would not understand and his play would be spoiled.
At times, he felt strange eyes upon him as he pursued his meticulous work. The folklore surrounding Exmoor with its misty valleys, high hills and lonely outcrops told of creatures who roamed at night. Perhaps they gathered unseen to applaud his successful campaigns.
Sometimes, he could feel their eyes on him. He felt their darkness and longed to share the evil that he knew dwelt and flourished in the woods and trees since primeval times. His greatest dream was that one day the darkness would absorb him and he would become immortal to pursue his works for ever.
He hefted the powerful rifle in his hands, felt its sleek coolness and enjoyed the feeling of power and control it gave him. The cottage was cursed and he was its curse. He was its poltergeist.
He always acted surreptitiously, a touch here a touch there. Minute observation of the occupants showed what they really cared about so he knew where to strike next and hurt them most.
His eyes wandered around the untidy garden. The only flowerbed that the woman had tended had been the one beside the path. The postman with his clumsy feet had already trodden on this freshly tilled earth. He sniggered to himself to see it marked and flattened, relishing the expression on the woman's face.
He'd watched with glee when she'd fallen in the middle of the bramble patch surrounding the old notice board. Her gasps and screams were a treat, spoilt only by her gurgling laughter at the end. He didn't understand why she'd laughed at the pain of the bramble scratches and the nettles. He'd felt angry that she'd laughed and this was why he had shot a hole in the notice board. It asserted his power and made him feel back in control.
He focused his attention on the clothesline with its heavy hanging white dress. Wedding dresses were stupid, he thought. Women wasted so much money on them and then only wore them once - so typical. He remembered how the woman had almost lovingly attached the dress to the clothesline. It was obviously important to her. He wondered what she'd been thinking of as she was hanging it up and felt the bitterness of exclusion because he didn't know and this made him angry again.
Efficiently, he snapped the rifle to his shoulder and placed two bullets through the fabric, spacing the holes far enough apart to ensure that that they would require separate mending. The silencer on the end of his rifle muffled the guns explosion. He also waited a few moments between shots. It was this attention to detail that had ensured he'd never got discovered. The dress was wrecked now he was sure. She might put the damage down to a bird or maybe those idiot children that were playing earlier on the river. Wondering how it happened would play on her mind.
The woman had moved upstairs and was running water in the bathroom. He imagined himself standing in the bathroom, unseen, watching her. His breath quickened. When she'd passed the window on the stairs landing, she'd only worn a bathrobe. It was time to move. There was a place on the hill, if he moved quickly, where his powerful binoculars could continue following the story. After checking in all directions to ensure there were no passers-by, he slid heavily down the tree and made his way to the hill at the back of the cottage.
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