Willow Farm

The sky was dark.                                                                                               

Black clouds with bloated purple edges billowed heaps of snow onto Willow Farm. Black ice creep up the ancient oaks, enveloping its glistening bark. The colour of steel, the metallic moon hung low in the sky, consuming the darkness in its orbit. Locked in the barn, the lowing cattle huddle together to save warmth. The farmhouse is shrouded in shadows, a singular light in the master bedroom flickering. Once the light is extinguished, the curtain are closed and the house is swallowed by the night.      

He crouches down in the bushes and waits.                                                                         

Over the pounding of his heart, the noise of chickens gently clucking their chicks to sleep drifts through an icy blast of wind. Looking up at the sky, he admires the beauty of their patterns and it reminds him of bloody slashes across bruised flesh. A reptilian tongue pokes out of his mouth and catches a snowflake. Flicking it back between his tight lips, he detects a faint hint of salt and smiles.      

In a fast, mechanical jerk, he turns his head back to the house and feels a bolt of excitement pulsate through his body. The light has been turned off. I will wait ten more minutes and go in. While he waits, he scouts the property, making sure there is no movement. Satisfied, he picks up the tools and goes to the back door.                                          

Picking the lock was simple and within seconds he is inside.                                                

He creeps through the silent house. A soft creaking from his polyester overalls. He walks into the living room and runs a gloved finger over the hard surfaces. His finger pauses over the open Bible. It lingers over a verse in Revelations: as for the cowardly, the faithless, the detestable, as for murderers, the sexually immoral, sorcerers, idolaters, and all liars, their portion will be in the lake that burns with fire and sulphur, which is the second death. With a half-smile, he closes the Bible and continues on to the kitchen. 

A pot of beef stew sat atop the stove in a large cast iron pot. Caressing the ladle, he scoops up the brown liquid and holds it to his nose. The heat of paprika penetrates his nostrils. He gently places the ladle back into the pot and walks into the hallway. The house feels preternaturally silent as he creeps across the wooden floorboards. The moonlight seeps through the stairwell window, glistening on his black polished shoes, as he takes the first two steps. A muffled creak escapes from the wooden staircase as he begins his silent ascent.

His heart jack-hammers in its cage as he tries to control his breathing. Once he reaches the landing, he steadies himself on the handrail, the sound of blood rushing to his head disorientating. Ahead, five closed doors branched off the landing with another staircase at the end. The polyester suit is causing droplets of salty sweet sweat to drip down his face as he slithers towards the first bedroom. The suit was a nuisance but necessary.                                  

As if he was swallowing the noise, his mouth gapes as he gently turns the door handle. Glancing over his shoulder, he takes one last look at the landing and walks in.                 

Placing the bag on the floor, he takes in his surroundings and clenches his jaws.  Clothes are strewn across the floor. Every inch of the cream carpet is covered in bras, knickers, jeans and jumpers. A battered oak wardrobe stands in the corner next to a garish pink vanity station.                                                                                                                                  

A wooden-framed double bed is bolted to the wall in the far corner. Wrapped in a duvet cocoon, lay the girl. From the frozen moonlight shining through the curtains, he can only make out the outline of her body. Her chest rises up and down rhythmically and no sound comes from her mouth.                                                                                                        

He stands there for a moment, relishing her vulnerability.                                        

Taking two steps closer, he looms over the bed and looks down at her. His shadow casts deformed images on the wall above. 

His face is expressionless as he kneels down by the bed and unzips the bag. He withdraws a hypodermic needle and a pot of liquid. Holding it up to the moonlight and extracts the correct amount. Crouching down by the bed, he gently slips the needle into her arm and pushes the plunger. She stirs a little and lays still.                         

Now he must deal with the others.