Neighbourhood News
It was after midnight, and the night felt thick, as though the hours were trapped in winter molasses. Cold air hung heavy over the estate, and the darkness pressed tight against the rows of sleeping houses. To most, nights like this were wild things — dark, dangerous, unpredictable. Yet tonight was the lightest the man had felt in years.
He moved quickly through the silent estate, purposeful in every step. Tall lamps cast islands of pale light across the pavement, guiding him through the stone jungle. He breathed deeply through his nose; a moment later, plumes of cold air spilled from his mouth. His hands sank deeper into the pockets of his trench coat, long and black enough to swallow his frame whole. Paired with his dark hair and grey trousers, it made for a decent disguise. Whenever he slipped beyond the reach of the lamps, he liked to imagine himself erased entirely. Gone, just like that, and no one the wiser. The ironyalmost made him laugh.
Ahead, curtains twitched.
A wry smile touched his lips — a small, private expression, reserved only for moments he knew were safe. Stepping back beneath the glow of a streetlamp, he softened his dark eyes and lifted a friendly wave toward the hidden watcher. A second later, the curtains snapped shut, a lock clicked, and an old man emerged from the house.
“What are you doing out at this time of night?” his neighbour asked, incredulous. “And dressed all in black? Haven’t you watched the news?”
“We still need to live our lives, don’t we?” the man replied easily. “I know you’re scared. We all are. But there’s nothing to be done.”
He paused, faint amusement curling at the edge of his mouth.
“Besides, black’s always been my colour.”
The old man chuckled and shook his head. Muttering something about the youth, he shuffled back inside. The locks turned once, twice, then a third time, before the house finally went dark.
The man in black watched him go, smiling all the while. The expression was velvet stretched over a set of fangs.
Then the mask slipped away.
He pressed onward. He had already wasted enough time, and now it felt like the night was tightening around him with every passing second. Identical houses lined the street in neat succession until one finally broke the pattern. To his left stoodthe first house, still wrapped in strips of police tape. The front door sagged on broken hinges, and dark stains lingered across the lawn, too deep to be scrubbed away completely.
This was the one that had made the news. It was the first of his many works. Not his finest — far from it — but every craft needed a beginning. Many others had followed since then, and still there was more to do. He smiled fondly at the memory, but never slowed his pace.
Now he was near the end of the street, near his destination.One final check of his pockets. Good, still there. Whistling to himself, he climbed the short landing to the final house and stopped at the door.
Wonderful paintwork, he thought, I really must ask them for a quote.
Then the man in black raised his hand and knocked.