Chapter 1: Chapter 1: Mr. James Hunter

As the wind swept them from the trees before they fell to pave the way for winter, the dead, dried leaves spun in the wind. A rustle of brown boots cut through the stillness, and the foliage fell to the ground in a whisper, abruptly entering the boscage atmosphere. Though the boots fluttered with a sense of urgency, they were not vigorous enough to qualify as running. There was a quivering balance between pacing and straddling as if his legs wanted to give way, but something was stopping them. As his eyes scanned his surroundings, often over his shoulders, his right hand gripped tightly over the right pocket of his jeans. This was to ensure nothing escaped into the light, no matter the cost. Each gasp for air caused his chest to flutter; the soles of his boots carved the earth with each step. Eventually, the man's pace slowed, and while his mind shook with adrenaline, his body reluctantly fell to the ground.

His eyes twitched as he stared at the receding sunlight in the distance amid the vestiges of the old undergrowth of brackens and shrubs. He shifted his gaze upward, trying to find shelter. However, he could only see a few, smaller pine trees before their larger brethren spread their evergreen feathers. This created a blanket of darkness that shielded what lay on the other side. In the cold and dark, a dried-up mud path grazed the outer edge of the forest and led to a path that led beyond the mountain that sat majestically to the left of the road as far as one could see. Despite the clear sky, the scenery reeked of desolation and gloom, or perhaps that was the cruel ploy of a worn-down psyche. He looked back one last time with bloodshot, sullen eyes, and his vision immediately conveyed a sense of civilization being a long way behind him.

He tried to close his eyes because they needed to rest, but the vibrations of fear kept him from doing so. It was not because he was tired in the body, but because he was tired in the mind. This is because his arms and legs became sluggish in response to guilt and fear manifesting themselves in his conscience. Nevertheless, he was powerless to do anything about it. His dread was too overwhelming to bear, and his only option was to keep moving. Pushing himself against the ground, he rose to his feet and knew there was only one way forward. Thus, his boots picked up their speed, scraping the meadow vegetation as he swayed in the breeze.

As the last rays of the sun illuminated the path ahead in the dim light, his agitation only increased. Despite not seeing anyone within a notable five miles, he repeatedly tapped his right pocket, again and again, making sure the contents were safe. The pain caused by losing the secret he was carrying would not compare to his relief from seeing a human face. By this time, the crimson hue of the evening sky had almost receded into the thick cover of night. The wind was beginning to carry jackal and wolf howls. His tired yet sensational imagination imagined their cries had been filled with pain and anguish. In a way, perhaps his statement was a personification of his feelings since he was depressed over what had transpired so far. He was thinking of nothing but finding a place to cushion his head and sleep the night away. In the encroaching darkness, however, that possibility began to diminish as the evening sun's last rays faded.

As he looked at the ground, he exhaled deeply, and after seeing a branch, he briskly took the lighter from his jacket's front pocket and lit it. Fire briefly engulfed the piece of lumber before it was reduced to flakes, which were eaten away by the wood.

Having discarded the branch, he muttered to himself, "No fluid. It won't burn." As the flakes devoured the kindling, he noted the lightless path in front of him that could not be discerned by his naked eye. The man, facing no other options, began walking again in hopes of finding some illumination from the moon.

A poorly glowing lamp that provided enough of a contrast against the dark gave him hope after walking through the shrubbery for a few moments. With a closer look, he was able to make out another lamp nearby, which brought him to the height of euphoria. A two-story house appeared to have them hanging on its front sides. Astonished, he kept marching toward the house in the light from the torches and found that the walk had become wider before reaching the door. He arrived at the building's front door where a sign was resting on the door swing in full view. He picked up the old, rectangular piece of wood, which had carved into the grain the words, "Moon Lodge." His face lit up with a wry smile as he enthusiastically knocked three times on the door.

An imposing figure appeared on the other side of the egress, as the egress creaked against his inner ear. The man was in his mid-fifties and had a slender figure with thinness adding length to the otherwise modestly sized person. The left side of his head was a clump of grey and white hair neatly combed. His face was elongated and lean, and a thick, dark mustache flourished under his nose, leaving the rest of his face untouched. A hint of sternness lingered behind his lapis-colored eyes.

"Yes?" the man replied, his steely gaze averted. The voice in his head was coarse, as expected from a thin, relatively short man of fifty.

"I want a room,” the stranger replied.

"Hmm." The man said mutely, his tone implying that a stream of thoughts was navigating his mind at the moment.

The man opened the door to the stranger after a moment of apparent deep thought. With the stranger trailing behind him, the lodgekeeper walked toward the reception. A few paces away from the entrance was the reception, next to the stairs that led to the first floor. There was a yellowish lamp over the reception desk, giving off a somber vibe that resonated with the isolated ambiance of the hotel. As the lodgekeeper glanced at the holding board, he pulled out an old, semi-rusted key and placed it on the table. With some concentration and squinting in the dim lighting, the stranger figured out that the key was attached to a worn leather holder containing the number "2".

"Walk through the stairs, then turn left at the second door.” The lodgekeeper pointed to the left end of the hall. "If you need anything, I live downstairs in that room."

The stranger nodded.

"It's going to be five pounds per night," the lodgekeeper informed.

The stranger pulled out a small billfold from inside his jacket and pulled out a five-pound note. He accepted the money and brought out a velvet-covered register that was almost four feet long. Eager anticipation of the stranger's reply, the lodgekeeper asked the stranger his name.

 

"James Hunter," responded the stranger.

With his reply, the lodgekeeper turned from his stern gaze into a glare, as the lamplight hovered over him, making him seem oddly menacing. The lodgekeeper's eyes were quick to notice the stranger's right hand clasping his jeans' right pocket. Now he turned his attention to the man's upper body, to the suede jacket with a pocket on the lower-left abdomen of the jacket. Despite being chained it did not appear that the pocket contained the object his eyes were searching for. A light grey shirt could be seen underneath the jacket when it was unzipped. The lodgekeeper observed that the stranger's upper clothes fitted him snugly. His eyes were drawn to the stranger's right hand, which was holding the right pocket of his jeans.

He hid his lower body movements from the eyes of the people on the other side by tucking his hands behind the edge of the table that protruded inwards. Taking a few steps, he dropped his hands and moved toward the inner ledge of the table. The stranger stared blankly in the lodgekeeper's direction as his forearms tensed and his hands snagged something. Having latched in place, a sly grin swept across his lips as his eyes began to glow.

Suddenly the lodgekeeper pointed the barrel of a pump-action shotgun at the stranger's face.

"Well, you seem to have been bored of being dead then?" the lodgekeeper asked.

The stranger was as pale as a fish out of water within seconds as he struggled to catch his breath.

"Hold your hands in the air, and don't move suddenly. Or I'll have to stay up all night mopping you off the floor," the lodgekeeper said as he slowly emerged from behind the reception, keeping his barrel squarely pointed toward the stranger.

"I don't want any trouble. I'm going," the stranger muttered in a trembling, barely audible tone as his palms quaked.

"Well, Mr. James Hunter, I am sure you noticed the rope just outside the box you entered through. So, I suggest you slowly walk towards this door and open it," said the lodgekeeper, pointing with the barrel of the shotgun.

As he walked slowly to the door, the stranger gestured with his hand to comply. With the lodgekeeper following behind him, he tipped the knob lightly and took a step outside. A crate in the shape of a cube rested beside the lodgekeeper's doorstep. The lodgekeeper waved his finger gently downward towards the crate. The box was topped with a pristine piece of rope, resting above a mess of ragged newspapers.

"Just grab the rope and help yourself," the lodgekeeper instructed.

The stranger's eyes clung to the right edge in the topmost newspaper, where a small column ran down.

The stranger glanced at the second line of the column that read, "Mr. James Hunter was last seen leaving his Shell Street home on the afternoon of July 24, 1980." The stranger then shifted his gaze slightly upwards, reading, "Unexplained disappearance. Landowner presumed dead!"

The stranger cursed himself silently as his eyes glinted in the torchlight. It seems imprudent for him to take the name off a newspaper article lying in the front yard of the house where he was seeking refuge. Due to the eventful day, he had already been through, he was not attentive to the news that he had received two years ago and that he might find some relief during the morning. In addition, the old, torn documents weren't worth much thought, and, therefore, this whole misfortune was simply the result of sheer bad luck.

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"The rope! Give it to me!" the lodgekeeper growled.

He immediately regained his senses and flung the rope to his captor, who snapped it in one swift motion.

"Turn around, face the ground and put your hands behind your back," instructed the lodgekeeper.

The stranger mumbled in his barely audible voice, "I won't trouble you. Just let me leave."

"Take one step more than I have told you and it's going to be goodnight for you."

The stranger quietly lay down and put his hands behind his back. Before the man could react, the lodgekeeper had tied both his hands in a tight knot. Despite his efforts, the stranger quietly calmed down after a moment.

As the lodgekeeper reached for the stranger's right pocket, he said to the stranger, "If you'll excuse me."

It was futile for the stranger to struggle this time. Before pulling out the green envelope, the lodgekeeper felt his way around the man's pockets. After glancing at it briefly, he tossed it aside and moved on to the left pocket. He went down to the stranger's ankles, squeezing through the jeans. Following that, he lifted the stranger's jacket and shirt to check the area around the waist. After flipping him over, he carefully examined the dusty suede jacket. Taking the billfold from the inside right pocket, the lodgekeeper sifted through it for a few moments before finding nothing that would spark further curiosity.

In somewhat of a confused tone, the lodgekeeper asked, "I see you aren't carrying anything sharp."

"No, I am not. As I said, I'm not looking for trouble. I'll leave. Just untie me!" requested the stranger in a pleading voice.

After stepping back a little, the lodgekeeper picked up his gun. While gazing at the stranger, he paused for a moment, then flipped him over and began to loosen the rope on the man's boot. The lodgekeeper smiled once more, and confidently opened the stranger's gate, for the man no longer posed a threat. Although he was almost half a foot taller than him and twenty years younger, from what he can tell this man was not very muscular and seemed to lack the experience and tenacity necessary to launch a surprise attack. As the lodgekeeper concluded, his only option was to sneak up on someone and charge with a weapon, which was impossible in this situation. Additionally, the stranger's face did not appear menacing at all, but rather tired, and though the brash beard might make him appear as an aggressive foe at first glance, to the lodgekeeper, it was merely a misguided attempt to appear like a ruffian.

Rather than attack, the stranger pushed himself off the ground and sprawled towards the tossed green envelope. He quickly retrieved the packet from the table and placed it in his pocket after sifting through its contents for some time. Before turning back toward the path, he had just come from, he glanced back at the lodgekeeper, who was resting the shotgun over his shoulder.

He took a few steps before hearing the lodgekeeper's call.

"Come on in. You can't stay anywhere else."

Astonished, the stranger stared at him, his face reflecting the confusion brought on by the statement. Sensing the stranger's feelings, the lodgekeeper replied, "Well, there isn't a house within fifteen miles. You want to leave, won't stop you. But I can wager that spending the night at my lodge is a much better option than wandering through the woods and finding anything."

"So, you can blow off my head while I'm sleeping?" said the stranger, his voice hinting at pent-up frustration that was slowly becoming anger.

"I won't bother you. Don't need to," replied the lodgekeeper.

The stranger asked, "Why the sudden change of heart?"

"You're not carrying a piece, and you don't seem tough enough to take me on even if I was half dead," said the lodgekeeper.

"You think so? Suddenly you are inviting the person you threw out of your house and threatened to kill," replied the stranger.

'You want to come in or not? The wind's getting chilly, and I won't keep on waiting all night,” said the lodgekeeper.

The stranger stood there for a moment, sizing him up, before lowering his gaze and crossing his arms as the wind grew stronger. The lodgekeeper was waiting at the doorstep as he began to slowly approach. His slow pace brought the lodgekeeper to him, and he gestured for him to come in with his palm.

"After you," said the lodgekeeper with a sly grin.

"How can I be sure you won't shoot me in the head if I turn around?" the stranger asked.

"If I wanted to do that, I wouldn't be fucking around for the past ten minutes like I'm trying to get you to sleep with me. I returned your wallet, didn't I -- must have been an easy couple hundred with you lying in the dirt. So, for the last time, do you want to come in?" asked the lodgekeeper, with a gun barrel facing the ground, the stock swinging in his left hand.

After entering the lodge, the stranger and lodgekeeper walked toward the reception. As the lodgekeeper reached the reception desk, he picked up the key and his pen. The yellowish light bulb loomed above, and the air in the room seemed dense as if bearing witness to the incident that had just occurred.

In the register, the lodgekeeper wrote, "Mr. James Hunter."

"That's not my real name," replied the stranger.

"Yeah, listen, you can be whoever you want as long as you pay the rent and don't try to whack me," the lodgekeeper said, handing the key to the man. As the stranger walked up the stairs, he heard the lodgekeeper shout, "My name's Lionel Shaw. Oh, and Mr. Hunter, next time come up with a fake name before giving it to anyone. Especially, not the most conspicuous name from the newspaper that person is reading."

He nodded and continued walking. His thoughts were constantly consumed with the events of the day as he walked. He was something else in the morning, and by nine-thirty in the evening, he was somebody called James Hunter, which he read from the clock hanging in the hallway. "This day keeps getting worse," said the newly named James Hunter as he arrived at a worn-out brown oak door that read 2.

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