It took one swift movement to remove the spear from the woman’s head. She knew not to come into Kane’s wilderness; he had no sympathy for her. Watching her fumble down the path in a state of panic had proved more than arousing, but the cleanup after each kill was a nuisance. He slung the flaccid body over his shoulder and headed along Harlon’s trail to a trapdoor that lay between Harlon’s old vehicles. Kane flung open the door and dropped the woman’s body and harpoon into the hole. He would deal with it later. Once the body hit the floor, Kane kicked the door shut and pulled his machete from the leaves at the base of the trapdoor. He examined the blade until the sound of the door banging disturbed his thoughts. Kane looked up to see the old man leaning on the rickety door of the cabin, whiskey bottle in hand.
‘I told her not to sell the place,’ Harlon rambled. ‘Told her I did.’ The old man raised his bottle and took a swig of the drink. When he lowered it, Kane had vanished.
Kane cut across the woods; he knew the woods well and it was quicker to walk through the forests than around the trails. Quicker and more subtle. His peace had been interrupted more than usual; for the past week, servicemen had been coming and going to Maple Cabin. Some only visited for a short time, did their job and left, and others never left. Kane tolerated Marietta, the old woman who lived on the other side, as she kept herself to herself and was an old friend of his mother’s. Harlon also kept himself to himself and helped Kane when needed. Moving another person into his wilderness was strictly prohibited, just as he forbade visitors from using his land to indulge their carnal needs and personal addictions. Harlon had warned him about Lyra for some time. He had heard from other townspeople that this woman had purchased the cabin and subsequently informed Kane.
Kane’s feet crunched on the forest floor as he stormed towards the cabin. Harlon had warned the sheriff. Some people saw Harlon as a crazy old-timer, but the sheriff knew better. Kane had spent the day hidden in the shroud of the trees, watching the woman from afar. His fury boiled at the sight of Amy Penrose assisting an outsider to invade his territory. Now that she had been dealt with, he could deal quietly with this woman, Lyra. She was a stranger; no one would notice if she vanished. She would just be another disappearance in Maple Lake, another reason for people to stay away and leave him in peace.
Maple Cabin was poorly lit when he arrived; the door was locked, but the shutters to the studio had been left open, an oversight on Lyra’s part. Kane climbed through the open window. A lamp glowed on a stand in the corner. The majority of the room was taken up by a large folding table, which was covered in partially completed paintings, dark paintings. Some were of demons, others nightmarish landscapes and abstract designs. One piece particularly attracted his attention; a man with two faces, plain white on one side and distorted on the other. Kane touched it with his free hand and tilted his head in awe. The image spoke to him, a distorted monster and a blank canvas all in one being. For a while, time stood still; he was lost in the picture and all that it represented.
Lyra shuffled in her sleep. The sofa was comfortable, and she burrowed subconsciously down into it. Her shifting caused the legs to creak against the floor; at the sound, Kane’s head spun around. He breathed deeply but took another look at the painting before tightening his grip around the machete that dangled from his hand. Light from the lamp echoed into the front room as Kane pushed the door open. Lyra lay asleep on the sofa. He could kill her quickly and rid himself of another nuisance invading his land.
He strode over to her. Lyra did not move; she was lost in a deep sleep. Kane raised his machete and prepared to strike. She had drawn the two-faced man; he thought of the painting. It troubled him. Lyra’s long, thick eyelashes flickered as she dreamed. Kane’s fist clenched about the hilt. Lyra shivered gently. The warmth of the day had ebbed away, and she had fallen asleep without a blanket or any kind of comfort. Her teeth scraped her deep plum lips as her body reacted to the cold. Only black leggings and a crop top covered her, and through the top, Kane noticed how cold she was. He would be merciful in taking her; he would make her death quick and painless. With one fast, sweeping movement, he drove the blade down towards her throat, but his wrist locked before it touched the skin. His fingers squeezed tightly, and in a strange fury, he pulled the weapon away from the sleeping woman.
This feeling was something new; all Kane had ever felt was anger, revenge and a desire to inflict pain. A new feeling overwhelmed him, something he could not yet fathom. This young woman lay defenceless against him, ripe for the taking, and yet he could not bring himself to harm her. Kane knelt down beside her and lowered the machete to the floor. Instinctively, he removed his right glove and very slightly brushed his hand against her cheek. She felt soft and warm. He moved a stray strand of hair from her face and ran his fingers across her head. She shivered again. She was getting colder and the night air could be treacherous. Kane rose and trod carefully to the other closed room, which he presumed was her bedroom. There he found her bed made with a thick quilt. He carried the quilt to Lyra and laid it gently over her body. Lyra’s hand gripped the blanket and she brought it to her mouth for comfort. Her legs curled under her and her breathing deepened.
Kane wanted to leave, but something compelled him to stay and watch her. Usually, he indulged in the delights of watching the life leave his victim’s eyes, yet he found himself fixated on watching Lyra breathing and sleeping. Again, he knelt down next to her. Deep inside, he hoped that she would not wake as he feared that his natural instinct to kill would overwhelm him and he would lose her. Time seemed to slow down as Kane gazed on his obsession. The grandfather clock ticked hypnotically in the corner of the room, complementing the rise and fall of Lyra’s ample breasts. Intermittently, he would lift his machete and stroke her slumbering body with the potent blade; this gave rise to a new concoction of sensations which both confused and tantalised him. As the midnight chimes rang from the clock, Kane’s trance was broken by the glare from two headlights.
Bob Penrose had waited for Amy to return to the office. He had specifically warned her to stay well away from Maple Lake. Like Sean, he had grave reservations about selling Maple Cabin. He knew that there would be consequences for the new resident, but the extra income was needed to escape the cursed town. His stomach sank as the day turned into night. Sean had warned them against dealing with any property in the Maple Lake area, so he knew he would receive no help there. At length, Bob decided, albeit reluctantly, to venture into the wilderness and find his wife.
Lyra’s dreams were abruptly interrupted by bright lights and the sound of a car rumbling in front of her home. She sat up with a start and instantly jumped with fright. Her body was covered with a duvet that she had not put there. She stared about her and, for a second, she swore that she saw the shape of a man disappearing into her studio. She stared after the figure. Outside, a car door slammed, followed by a loud knocking at her door. She looked from the door to the studio and back again before rushing over to unlock the door.
‘Hi, Lyra. I am sorry to bother you,’ the man began. ‘I am Bob Penrose, Amy’s husband, and I know it’s late, but I wondered if Amy was still here?’ Lyra stretched and yawned.
‘No, she left hours ago.’ There was a momentary awkward silence, and Lyra swore there was a look of sadness on Bob’s face. Her thoughts quickly turned back to the duvet and the figure.
‘As you’re here, do you think you could help me?’ Lyra asked. ‘It will only take a minute.’
‘What’s the problem?’ Bob asked, distracted by the disappearance of his wife. Lyra smiled nervously.
‘This may sound silly, but I fell asleep and when you woke me just there, I had a duvet over me.’
‘So?’ Bob questioned, half-knowing the answer.
‘I didn’t have one when I went to sleep and the door was locked. Nobody was here, and when I woke up just then, I swear someone was here.’
Bob gulped; he had expected to come upon a worse scenario. He suspected that Lyra would receive an unwelcome visitor, but like his wife, he felt some responsibility for the predicament Lyra was now in.
‘I will have a look,’ he muttered, ‘but then I have to go and find Amy.’
‘It’s this way,’ Lyra responded and signalled for him to follow her. The window was fully open; she must have forgotten to close it, but other than her equipment, the room was empty. Bob took the initiative and closed the window.
‘Anything else?’ he snapped.
‘No, and thank you,’ Lyra replied. ‘I will be fine.’
Bob had no doubts that his wife had met with an unpleasant end. She had been warned to stay well away, and he knew he had to leave before he met with an equally unpleasant end. He turned on his heel and started for the door, but the guilt bothered him, and he halted in the doorway.
‘Lady, you lock your doors and windows. Strange things happen out here.’ Bob did not even turn his head to look at her, and once the words left his mouth, he hurried to his car, turned on the beach and drove erratically away. Lyra locked up behind him and dragged her duvet to the bedroom to resume her sleep.
Grief formed tears in Bob’s eyes; this had not been the plan. The plan was to sell the property, take the money and run. He was angry with Amy for putting her life at risk and heartbroken. Under his breath, he cursed himself for ever agreeing to sell Maple Cabin. Rain started to pour from the heavens, pelting his windscreen; he was obliged to put the wipers on at full speed. The car juddered along the track and slid slightly on the wet soil. He pumped the accelerator, trying to navigate through the dirt whilst struggling to see through the soaked glass. His foot suddenly plunged on the brake pedal.
Between the light of the headlamps stood a giant of a man, masked, still and staring. Bob’s stomach knotted; people who saw Kane seldom lived to tell their story. His hands gripped the steering wheel furiously. He shifted the car into reverse in an attempt to escape the monster. The vehicle only managed to travel a few yards before the wheels wedged in the mud. Bob pressed the accelerator hard; a whirring sound hummed in his ears, but the car did not budge. He turned his head back to the road before him. The monster was gone. Bob caught his breath and looked about him, but the rain was too heavy, and his vision was blocked.
Few options presented themselves; the only escape route seemed to be on foot. Bob turned off the ignition and carefully opened the door. Kane was nowhere to be seen, so he climbed out of the car into the sopping wet dirt. As he did, the monster leapt from the roof of the car and, with two huge, gloved hands, grabbed his victim’s head and dragged the struggling man to the front of the vehicle before ramming his head through the windscreen. Crushed glass pierced Bob’s pounding head. Barely alive and barely conscious, he attempted to struggle. He was no match for Kane. The two hands pressed firmly against his temples; the pressure was unbearable as Bob’s skull caved under Kane’s crushing hand and an eyeball was forced from its socket.
