My frequent walks these last few years about the neighborhood so familiar to me would ordinarily be construed a pleasant enough non-event. A little mild exercise - taken in small doses to keep the joints operating properly - and a keen eye peeled for the ever-changing face of nature have rendered the daily promenade a suitable diversion. Until recently.
I noticed nothing unusual at the beginning; I saunter over the same roads almost without variation, being an inveterate creature of habit. To tell the truth, I cannot pinpoint the exact day I began walking in this particular region of my town, other than the fact that, when I moved here some three years ago, I was too involved with matters more pressing than finding time to exercise. Nevertheless, once in a routine of regular jaunts throughout our peaceful suburb, I really sensed nothing out of the ordinary. No, not until recently.
I'm being stalked. Not in the usual sense. No crazed individual lurks in shadow. No person trails me surreptitiously. The sun is shining and birds are singing. Evil does not happen under such circumstances. Yet, an evil far more sinister than any miserable human could embody and visit upon the unwary soul has seeped into my neighborhood. Slowly. Insidiously. By otherworldly design.
The beauty of my natural surroundings - wherever that might happen to be - has never failed to tug at my heart and stir my imagination. For a certainty there are enchanted castles in the clouds, armies of fabulous creatures inhabiting the forest and crusty woodsmen rafting down a river swollen by heavy, unseasonal rain. A secluded cabin properly placed in this setting would be the perfect touch. Back to the present: I am capable of distinguishing between reality and imagination, however active and fertile that imagination may be.
It's impossible to take in one's surroundings all at once. In addition to observing nature, I revel in the diverse architecture of my neighborhood. Even over a period of time, however, one still misses detail. Yes, there always has been a house on that lot, but I hadn't noticed the awnings over the two windows facing the street. Oh, this home on Robin Way has a brass kick plate affixed to the base of the front door. Was it always there? When did the Johnston's install metal railing on their deck? I didn't notice that the wooden corral railing had been removed ...
And there it was. Why hadn't I seen it before? I've shot a look at that hillside more times than I can count, but I don't remember ever seeing that house on the hill before. It gives all the appearance of rising up from the soil as though it were sown and nurtured there, tended as though it were part and parcel of the wood itself. This acknowledgement of a hillside dwelling should not, of itself, be any cause for undue concern. Of course not. Not till somewhat later, feeling a slight need for change and taking a different stretch of road, did I look out toward another band of foothills and feel a shudder fly up my spine.
There, unmistakable, was the house. I looked and looked again. It couldn't be. I've walked so long, so far. Nothing else about the forested ridge appeared remotely familiar. I was taken aback by the ghostly deadness of the land and forest surrounding the building. As for the defining architecture, the line of the house, the slant of the roof and ... the window.... What was clearly recognizable as a window was not by any means a typical pane of glass. Despite the other readily identifiable characteristics of the house, the window was, eerily so, the distinguishing feature.
Darkly sinister. And peering ...
Peering at me....
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