The house that he was over-looking was dull and shabby. It was apparent that it had not been inhabited for many years as the windows were broken, and the roof was caving in. The house had turned a grey colour with dark green moss growing out of the jagged cracks. The back door had fallen down and was slowly decomposing into the ground, leaving behind a strong, putrid stench of the decaying wood. Surrounding the house was a huge garden that contained dying plants and trees, and the grass had overgrown and was turning a nasty brown colour. The weather made everything look so dull and dead, drowning everything gradually in its hands. There was an uncared atmosphere that could be seen and felt.
He manoeuvred himself to see the view of the side of the house as a green car turned off the road onto the muddy path leading to the house. As the car went past the gate, he noticed a long deep scratch along the left side of it. Right on queue, the car drove over the nail he had planted on the path, the car swerved and came to a stop. The woman in the car got out and went to the tyre to see if she could see what had punctured it. She went back to the car and fished out her mobile. She put it to her ear, but didn’t say anything. He looked at his own, and saw that there was no signal and then looked up and saw that she was trying again. A frustrated expression appeared on her face. Soon after she got back in the car to shelter from the rain.
A little while later, she got out and started to run towards the house, the rain thrashing against her body. She accidentally ran into a puddle and tripped, but dragged herself up and carried on running. When she got near the porch, she stopped to take a look at the house. After a minute or two, she walked towards the entrance to the house, her hair by now plastered to the side of her face. As she reached the door, she paused, just as he knew she would. She turned the doorknob and stepped inside, and then he pounced, hitting her in the back of the head with one single shot. He walked up when she was on the floor and shot her again to ensure that she was dead. The walls were painted with her deep red blood, and her splintered skull was spread on the floor. As she took her last breath and lay still, he stood and looked down at her. Her eyes were open as if they were watching him. He felt a sense of pleasure as she had seen him, and knew that it was he who had killed her – she was his audience.
He picked up his gun and went to where he had been waiting for her. He gathered up any spare cigarette butts and put them into his brief case, along with the cartridge case. He walked around to the back of the house to where he had parked his van. He gave off an air of calmness and peace although he was cold and drenched. He carried on walking slowly to his van, carefully missing the muddy puddles. The hood of his coat was pushed over his head, covering his eyes. When he got to the van, he opened the doors at the back and went in to change his clothes, putting the old ones into a black bin bag. He zipped up the jumper and climbed over the seats and sat in the drivers seat. He pushed the key into the ignition, turned it, and drove off.