By Eleni Kontou
September 5th, 1998
15:33:
It’s weird being on your own when you have been attached to someone for so long, as though a part of you is elsewhere. Now people look at me and see a widow. As if my only purpose is to marry a man and serve him his whole life in gratitude for his honourable deed of marrying me.
I exit the car into the drive of my new home, the tree branches from the oak tree canopy rustling against the car roof, looking up and breathing in a sigh. I’m away, I’m finally away. I can see a blissful life here. Full of success, happiness and freedom. The sound of waves hitting rocks awaken me out of my daydream, dragging me back to the house that stands tall in front of me, a wooden fortress of anonymity. Its vibrant red door hides between the oaks, the only indication of the house’s presence.
I wonder if Sam would like it. Would he pull me close like he used to, smelling my hair as he kisses the top of my head? My body shakes, fighting the memory from my mind in a shiver, staring at the empty walls in front of me and noticing how quiet it is. A crow is balanced on the porch, it stares at me and seems to be warning me to stay away. The location is what drew me to the house, quiet, there is not a soul around for thirteen miles where the closest town lies. A sound ruptures the silence, my body jumping, the cold creeping under my skin, a cold that not even my parka can warm. Only to realise it was the freaking crow leaving me on my own.
September 12th, 1998
17:40:
Looking in the mirror it’s hard to really see myself. My perspective has always been askew. I don’t really know how to see myself. The true Theá. Sam always said I was beautiful, the he liked my ‘thick black curls’ that showcased my ‘golden, Jupiter, honey eyes.’ But he always liked my body most of all, my ‘pear-shaped’ Aphrodite-esque form. Isn’t it funny how women’s bodies are always compared to fruit? Pear-shaped, peachy ass. Men are never compared to stinky-ass durian fruit. Something catches my eye in the window that is reflected in the mirror. Quickly glancing towards the window, something moves from its ledge. My body temperature drops, and my arm hairs awaken as I spin around. In paralysing silence, I stare at the empty window frame. Closing my eyes and turning the doorknob I discover that it was just that darn crow again, mocking me with its stare.
Locking the door behind me, I follow the pathway that leads through the forest. The weather is grey today, nothing unusual in Scotland, but I can smell something different in the air. Different to the salty sea air that I’ve become used to - a smoky smell that chokes my nostrils. Hurrying through the trees, I reach the fire in a few minutes, cursing myself for leaving my coat. Expecting to come face to face with some kids telling scary campfire stories, I push myself through the branches to find nobody? The fire is almost out, embers melt into the sandy soil, the smoke disappearing above the trees. Glancing around and creeping towards the fire, now struggling to catch a full breath. Above the embers is a structure of branches tied together with rope to form an upside-down star. I let out a gasp of air when I recognise the pentagram in front of me. The snapping of a twig behind me wrenches me into movement, I’m running through the trees past objects hanging on trees; jewellery, pentagrams, pictures, me? I spot the red door up ahead as twigs pull at my clothes and scratch my face, my footsteps becoming more desperate only to stop dead when I notice what awaits me – a pentagram hangs from my doorknob. Gulping down a scream that painfully disintegrates in my throat, I force the structure off the handle, and I push my key into the lock, my cold hands weak, paralysed. I run to the coat rail at the end of the hall and grab the keys from my parka, whirring around to sprint to my car. I fumble at the clutch as I finally accelerate and reverse out the drive. Half expecting shadows to jump out from the trees, my heart doesn’t slow until I see the sign for town saying ‘1 mile to go’.
18:17:
The town is small and faces stare at my car as I search for somewhere to park. Soon I find a double space next to the library and a car pulls in next to me. The sun is setting and reflecting on the silver bonnet of the stranger’s car. Cautiously I step out of my car as he steps out of his. He is tall and clean shaven with a strong nose that looks out of place on his weak body. Thick black hair reaches his shoulders, unkempt as though he hasn’t quite decided on the style he wants it. His clothes are plain, a blue denim jacket covers a grey t-shirt, and knees are visible through the tears in his black skinny jeans. I realise that I have been staring at him this whole time, looking up, deep set grey eyes meet mine. They almost seem familiar. He smiles at me, one side of his lips rising higher than the other.
‘Hi.’
I quickly smile in response as he takes a few steps towards me, noticing that he walks smoothly, quietly, like a deer or a leopard.
‘Are you OK?’
‘I- yes. I mean no- I need help. I think somebody has been at my house.’
He stares at me unblinking, waiting for me to carry on.
‘They set a fire near my house and also hung all sorts of- what?’
Noticing his forehead suddenly wrinkle.
‘You just moved into the Hawksedge house, didn’t you?’
How does he know that? My fingers tighten around my car keys, the point sticking out between my middle finger and ring finger – I can still feel the groove from my wedding ring. I take a step back.
‘The same thing happened just months ago with the last owner, and also the two owners before her. They came to town to find out why things kept appearing around the house. They were freaked, one of them, Melissa Culvette, believed it was cultists.’
‘Is that why they moved?’
His eyes drift downwards before returning to meet mine.
‘You don’t know?’
Silence.
‘The last three owners of that house, they killed themselves. It’s kind of a mystery around here. A lot of the town believe the house is haunted. But whenever someone in town went to search the area, nothing was found. No pentagrams, no fires, no people, nothing.’
Thanking him, I start to climb back into the car.
‘Look, I can come back with you and take a look around, make sure everything is OK?’
Staring up into his eyes, the grey reminding me of the fast-approaching moon behind him.
‘What’s your name?’
‘Eugene.’
‘Do you mind following behind to come check out the area? I don’t know anyone around here and I don’t want to bother the police if it’s just some kids messing around.’
‘I would, but my car - I was only pulling into the car park because it is running out of petrol, has about a mile left in it.’
I scan him, can I trust this dude? He seems eager enough to help.
‘I can drive us. Do you mind?’
‘No problem, as long as you can drop me back here afterwards.’
‘Of course, thank you.’
I hop in my car, inviting him to take the passenger side.
18:25:
‘So, the girls, did they actually kill themselves, or did they just move away?’
‘Those are two separate questions.’
‘The police say there were notes and evidence that they jumped from Hawksedge cliff, but the bodies were never found. Everyone in this damn town will give you a different theory.’
‘So, what do you believe?’
‘I believe they jumped, yes. All I know is that people who move to Hawksedge house always have their own demons, they’re all running from something.’
His eyes scanning me, searching my reaction.
The rest of the journey I remain quiet and so does he.
18:58:
We eventually pull into my drive and Eugene steps out first. Opening the glove compartment, I grip my torch, the anxious cold returning to my hands again.
I point my torch towards the branches that scratched and pulled at me earlier. My heart rate quickens at the remembrance of earlier, knowing that I will likely find no evidence of my encounter. I focus the light on passing trees as we walk towards the clearing, hoping for a sign that I didn’t imagine it all.
19:02:
We arrive at the clearing and there is no sign of a fire ever being there. Impossible. Eugene is slightly ahead and turns to face me, my torch reflecting his piercing grey eyes.
The window, the shadow. I choke on my own breath.
‘Theá are you OK?’
I didn’t tell him my-
‘Stay away from me.’
The crease of worry in his forehead slithers down to the crook of his mouth, I notice that he is smiling and raising his hands to clap them. Every slow clap is sending tension through my body.
‘You’re smart, I’ll give you that. It took the other girls longer figure it out. You see Theá, we’re not too dissimilar. I know that you killed your husband, murdered him, stabbed him. Those girls, they did jump off that cliff- ‘
His eyes are lingering on an opening in the trees where the moon shines through onto my face, I half wished it would disappear so that he wouldn’t have the satisfaction of seeing the fear on my face, the fear that my husband searched for as he beat me.
‘-But only because I made them. So Theá you’re going to write me a little note.’
‘You bastard.’
His hand slips into his pocket and he pulls out a switchblade, my legs are failing now. In my pocket my knuckles are white, wrapped around my car keys, scared to run in case my legs fail me. Eugene hunts in his pocket again, this time pulling out a pad of paper and a pencil and throwing them at my feet. He strides towards me with the knife aimed at my stomach.
‘You will write me two notes, one for the police, and one for me as a, shall we say, souvenir.’
‘You sick piece of shit.’
Throwing the torch at him, I run to the cliff. His footsteps can be heard behind me, closing the distance. His arm wraps itself around my neck and I bite, hard. When he lets go, I lunge away from him, now trapped on the cliff edge. The only way out is to get past him, or to jump. The waves punch the rocks below, I wonder what noise my body will make hitting the water, will it be audible above the sound of the furious waves? Or will it go unnoticed like in life?
‘You see we’re very alike- ‘
‘No.’
‘You’re a killer like me.’
My mind flashes and suddenly Sam is standing in front of me, his hand speeding towards my face, I grab the prosecco bottle on the counter as I take the hit. Cowering to the floor awaiting another one that never comes. I look up, my hands sticky with blood. A pain stinging my palm. I notice glass on the floor, and I look behind me to see Sam lying there with blood seeping out of his stomach, and then I’m back on the cliff.
‘I’m nothing like you.’
Eugene’s laugh ignites a rage inside of me. I run at him with the car key sticking out between my knuckles, aiming a punch to his stomach.
‘You bitch.’
He takes a swipe at me with the switchblade, catching my arm. A hot pain trails from my shoulder to my bicep. The word ‘bitch’ only fuelling my anger, I grab at his wrist and twist it until he drops the knife, forcing a kick to the groin, I push. All I can hear is the sound of the waves fighting as he is lost in them.
September 17th, 1998:
Eugene’s body was never found, but the police found all of his ‘souvenirs’, along with pentagrams, pictures, and information on all of his victims. Ruling that he targeted residents of Hawksedge by scaring them and then offering his help when they seemed vulnerable.
The police say that I was lucky, but how can a woman abused by her husband, and forced by a serial killer into another new start at thirty-five, be lucky? What about all the women who weren’t, aren’t?
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