One step closer to the serial killer

The obtuse angle of dusk cut through the horizon. The whippoorwills began their nightly forage and Albert reflected on the Jedward trees that loomed in the distance from his house. Why are they all of a standard height? Why are their shapes so similar? Aren’t trees meant to be individualist and unique? Every night he looked at the trees with wonder.

A trail ran parallel to Albert’s log cabin that was never used by anyone but Albert. He liked to have these woods to himself; he was at one with nature. Just across from the side of his cabin a sign on the trail said: Montana 57 miles. He loved the complete randomness of the number fifty-seven. Not fifty-six or fifty-eight, it said fifty-seven.

Going indoors Albert listened to the radio. The Montana chainsaw killer had struck again, the news presenter said. Victim number ten was found hacked to death in the woods beside the highway in Rexford. Albert thought to himself that the murderer would probably stick at ten; it was a nice even number.

The next night as dusk hit the air in all its post-twilight shade the whippoorwills were nowhere to be heard. Albert yawned inside the log cabin before scratching his chest under his dungarees. He had overslept a bit. Albert opened the cabin door to be confronted with the Jedward trees right in his face. They were looking down on him with malevolence.

“The trees have moved.” Albert fell to his knees in a religious fashion. From out of the corner of his eye he spotted the trail, his trail. There was no sign on it. He rose up ignoring the Jedwards and walked round the side of the log cabin. In the distance the sign stood as erect as it ever had. As dusk fell it was clear to Albert that it was the cabin that had moved. It pained him to think that he was now, possibly, an even fifty-six miles from Montana.

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