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SYNOPSIS

An old recluse living alone in the woods witnesses a murder by a brutal serial killer. He takes it upon himself to hunt down and stop the killer before more lives are lost. Unfortunately he is not able to stop him in time and more women are murdered.

The police are baffled by the killer’s ability to blend into a crowd and name him Shadow Man. They also become aware of an indistinct figure on security tape footage, stalking the Shadow Man.

As the net around the killer tightens, the old recluse also closes in on him and it becomes apparent that the recluse is not all he seems.  He has very specific skills honed in the military and now the killer is being taunted, tormented and hunted by the old man.

Will the police or the old man stop the killer first, or will more innocent lives be lost?

 

CHAPTER ONE

Tick, tick, tick, the wearisome chant of a decrepit clock crept around the room. Tick, tick, tick incessantly nagging, the sound poked at Rory Galbraith’s ears, rousing him from an uneasy slumber. Tick, tick, tick. He frowned in confusion, his aged skin slack and liver spotted, thin lips blue tinged and tight. Tick, tick, tick his watery blue eyes flicked across the room to the old clock on the wooden mantlepiece.

The hands of the clock were bent and twisted, rusted into position from lack of use, the glass broken long ago, the face cracked and faded. Perplexed and irritated he rose from his rickety wooden chair, shuffling across the stone floor and stared at the clock. Tick, tick, tick. Rory grabbed the rotted wooden casing and lifted the clock from the mantlepiece, the innards clunking, some of the cogs making a bid for freedom and bouncing across the floor.

Tick, tick, tick, the sound continued, drawing Rory’s attention to the mantlepiece itself. As he watched, a small beetle crawled out of a hole and made its way to the edge of the wooden board. It paused for a moment, tick, tick, tick, it clicked. Rory’s blood ran cold. A deathwatch beetle he said to himself. That’s a bad omen.

The beetle took flight and laboriously buzzed through the open window, its fragile wings seemingly achieving the impossible as it hefted the black body up into the spring air.

Rory returned the remains of the clock to the mantlepiece and made his way into the kitchen. Poking the coal glowing in the heart of the black and rusty stove, he put an equally black and rusty kettle on to boil.

As the kettle slowly heated the water, Rory stared out the window at the wildflower garden he nurtured behind the cottage’s stone boundary wall. Spring was in the air and the early blooms braved the erratic weather, feeding the honeybees that lived in the old hive nestled in the corner. They had reached an agreement with Rory. He supplied them with a variety of blooms, and they allowed him to pinch a few pots of honey during the summer months. It was an amiable arrangement, and it suited them both.

Grumbling to himself he opened the door to the coal shed just off the main kitchen and checked his supplies. There was still a decent pile stacked at the back in the gloom. Now that summer was around the corner, he should be good for a while longer. A dented copper skuttle scooped up a fresh load and he dumped it in the stove, feeding the dwindling flames.

He leaned against the chipped porcelain sink and slowly pumped the handle of the old-style water pump. Rory didn’t have the luxury of a mains supply; he was too far up the hillside. Instead, his water came directly from a spring running down the right side of the house and disappearing underground to continue its journey to the ocean. The pump creaked and groaned, much like Rory on a cold day, as it offered its trickle of clear water into the pot.

The steam now rising from the kettle prompted him to turn and fill his cup, the strainer with old tea leaves balanced on top. Rory reckoned he could get another two cups from the leaves, he didn’t need any milk, a half teaspoon of honey was all he needed. To say he was frugal would be an understatement. He had earned himself the reputation of being a mean old hermit, antisocial and sour with the world. Rory didn’t care. He didn’t care about a great many things. He didn’t mind animals, dogs especially, but recently even dogs had been shunning him.

Putting the pot on to boil he stood looking out of the kitchen window at the new pathway that had been built just below his house. It was a forest trail and now his peace was frequently disturbed by hikers, dog walkers enjoying the stroll through the woodlands and of course those ghastly people on push bikes. He sipped his weak tea and grimaced. On the path below his cottage a gaggle of kids were giggling and shoving each other around. No doubt they were trying to scare each other in the spooky forest. Their eyes fell on his cottage, almost hidden amongst the foliage, nestled on the one clear patch, the rays of the setting sun illuminating it.

Rory stepped back out of sight, hoping they would get bored and go away. Bloody kids he thought, parents need to teach them manners about staring into people’s homes. The group were now shoving one of the younger members up the steep slope, daring him to throw a stone. The young lad was clearly afraid but tried to show some bravado as he approached the cottage. He picked up a small stone and lobbed it into the garden. It struck the wall of the cottage just by the door.

Outrage filled Rory, That’s it! You want a scare, you got it! His thoughts tumbled through his mind as he tumbled towards the front door. Yanking it open he stood in the threshold, fist raised, shouting, “Get out of here you little sods! I’ll leather the lot of you!”

The kid stood rooted to the spot; eyes wide in terror as he stared at the menacing figure in the doorway. The gang below were just as shocked. The moment of suspended animation lasted a millisecond before they all ran off screaming, the lad slipping and sliding down the slope to join his fellows as they made good their escape.

Rory watched them high tail it with a satisfied grin. That’ll teach you. Little shits. He made his way back to the kitchen just as the pot boiled. Pushing an old stopper into the sink he poured in the water and used the cold water from the pump to reach a suitable temperature. He picked up an old washcloth that had seen better days and a worn-down bar of carbolic soap, Rory began to undress, putting his clothes to one side as he stood naked on the stone flagons.

In the kitchen he cleaned himself the old-fashioned way. Despite his isolation he maintained the habits of hygiene. Once he had topped-and-tailed himself, he put the cloth into the sink along with his clothes and scrubbed them with soap and a brush, rinsing and squeezing as much of the water out of them as possible. A thin rope hung across the sink and drying board, and he put the wet clothes on this to dry. There was enough heat from the stove to dry his clothing overnight, but he would need to get into his pajamas before he got a chill.

He had already set out his nightclothes on the kitchen table, so he put them on and slipped his feet into a set of hard soled slippers, wrapping an old dressing gown around his thin frame. Sighing, he went back to his living room and coaxed the embers in the hearth to life, throwing on some logs scavenged from the forest to bring it to a heat. It was getting darker outside. He stood at his window staring at the pathway. This time there was a young lady walking her dog. She didn’t look up at the house and the dog only paused to sniff the air, glancing at the window he was standing in. The lady whistled as she hurried down the path, eager to get home before it got too dark.

He was about to turn away when something caught his eye. He wasn’t sure what made him look, something about the way the figure moved, sleekit was the word that leapt into his mind. Rory felt his hackles raise. He had seen this type before in the war, he moved like a predator, a killer. Pursing his lips, he debated on what he should do. It was obvious to him that this man was following the lady, and he didn’t think he had good intentions. Rory made his way to the door and took off his slippers, sliding his feet into his walking boots. He pulled on his heavy coat over his dressing gown, pulling up the hood and made his way outside, stepping down the slope on the old turf steps that only he knew, till he reached the path.

 

Declan Cranny pushed his hands deep into his jacket pockets, his fingers playing with the knotted rope coiled inside. A distance down the path he could see the outline of his mark. Bitch is going to get what’s coming the voice in his head was harsh and grating as he increased his pace don’t want to let her get away. Suddenly a chill crept up his spine, someone’s watching, someone’s there! His mind was anxious, and he turned quickly, staring back along the woodland path. It was almost dark, and visibility was poor, but he was sure there was no one behind him.

 

Rory saw the man hesitate and he stepped behind a tree just as he turned around. He watched as the man checked the path then continue on his way. That was close. He thought, the thrill of the chase building up in him, need to be more careful Rory lad, you’re losing your touch. He waited till the man was further down the path then he stepped out and continued his pursuit.

 

Cindy Foles and her dog had reached the end of the woodland walk and were making their way to their car parked in the small car park of the local market store. She had no idea that danger was rushing to catch up with her, no idea how close she came to dying that night. Instead, she loaded her dog into the car and drove away, just as Declan appeared at the end of the path. FUCK! The angry thought filled his mind as Declan gritted his teeth in frustration watching the car pull away. Breathing heavily with rage he turned and marched down the pavement towards the village that was rapidly becoming a small town. He didn’t notice the dark figure slipping out of the woodland, hugging the side of the pavement, and following his every move.

 

Just as it was Cindy’s lucky night, it was Mary’s unlucky night. She had been drinking most of the day, a normal practice for her, especially before she went to ‘work’ on the streets, plying her ‘services’ to any men that may be interested. Lightheaded and numb she made her way erratically towards the all-night market, sticking to the darker pavement next to the woods to avoid disapproving stares from the stuck-up goody two shoes’ residents. Through blurred vision she saw a potential customer coming towards her and she straightened herself, flicking her hair back. Smiling seductively at the rapidly approaching man. “Hi sweetie, can I do anything for you?”  Her question was laden with innuendo, and she could hear his breathing was rapid, “Hey, reckon you’re just about ready for some aren’t you.”

Declan couldn’t believe his luck; this mindless bitch had literally walked into his arms. A quick check confirmed no one was around. He grinned back and nodded to the woods. “I know a quiet place.” He whispered, pushing himself close to her body, his arms around her waist.

“I don’t want to get all dirty, I’ve other customers you know.”  Mary’s speech was slurred, she could feel how horney this guy was. She reckoned he be done in no time, and she could move onto the next one.

“It’s grassy, I’ll put my jacket down.”  He wasn’t giving her time to refuse and had already pulled her through the bushes and into a woody clearing. She giggled manically, her hands groping for him.

“Come on then, get it out, let’s get on with it.”  She licked his face as she tried to unzip his jeans. Her drunken passion turned to shock as she felt the ligature wrap around her neck. She was pushed to the ground, his full weight on her, his black eyes staring into hers as her face began to swell and her tongue protruded between her teeth. Mary’s body jerked in spasms which excited him all the more, he grabbed her tongue between his teeth and as he climaxed, he bit down hard, swallowing his treat as Mary died.

Declan lay for a moment, gasping for breath and in ecstasy at the taste of blood, the sex and thrill of the kill. His pleasure was interrupted as that chill crept over him again. Something was there. He pushed himself up and stared in fear at the dark figure outlined against the closely packed trees.

Rory was horrified. He had just seen this guy strangle a woman. He froze in fear as the man looked right at him. In a blind panic he turned and ran as fast as he could through the woods he knew so well, back up the pathway and back to the safety of his cottage. He slammed the door shut behind him and lent against the old wood, his breathing ragged, his mind in turmoil. What am I going to do!