Dark Mist

A retired soldier living out his twilght years in tranquil surroundings, or are they.

   From his log cabin’s main window, Jack Myers had a picturesque view of Toucan Bay, a natural cove of shale and sand carved in thousands of years by the ocean. To the left of the panorama was a craggy grey rock face that extended to a height of one hundred and fifty feet, a forbidding structure that no-one would dare to climb. On the right the bay arced in a semicircle form, which stretched out for a half mile, where it straightened into a rocky peninsula to the end was housed a white lighthouse blinking its warning to passing ships.

Jack sat by the window on his hand crafted wooden chair, a hobby of his since he moved to the bay ten years previous. A small oak coffee set to the side with a collection of newspapers, a coffee cup and a red pen. He appeared to be in a trance, his eyes fixed on the soothing almost hypnotic motion of the ocean gently lapping the shoreline. He was thinking of the last time everything was this calm, he couldn’t, not one instance in the years that he had lived there. Usually the ocean crashed against the incline and small floodwall at the foot of the property, the cabin itself was higher up, a good two hundred yards.

            An unfaltering gaze for hours, Jack just sat quietly pondering over his memories of a somewhat forgotten history, the only sound was that of a clock on the wall above the fireplace ticking the hours away. His thoughts drifted back and forth to his military career. In the Nineteen seventies, Eighties and Nineties he had seen at lot of pain, bloodshed and done unspeakable acts of destruction that caused countless deaths in service for his country, things that didn’t matter now somehow, all efforts seem to be in vain. Countries still at war, people still dying, Jack was still getting older and now that all bullets and the blood were washed from his hands, they had learned a new craft, carpentry. But even with this new found skill, he had been feeling strangely uneasy, twitchy and nervous for a few days now, not like Jack at all, normally such a precise demeanour. What was it, what was making him feel this way, he just couldn’t put his finger on it.

He was that deep in thought he was completely unaware of someone standing behind him. A shadow of a man reflected in the window, he blinked himself back to reality. Something inside triggered a reaction, a dormant reaction. In a swift movement he pulled a handgun, from its secured place under the coffee table and with a half rotation to his left he pointed the barrel of the weapon at the intruder. With a calm controlled yet authoritative tone he said, “Don’t move.”

 

            Nothing moved, Jack aimed the gun sights directly at the figure in the shadows, his right index finger resting lightly on the trigger, his left hand cupping the butt of the weapon steadying it for anticipation of recoil. Moving forward, Jack stepped, a creak from a floorboard and ‘BANG’ the gun erupted with its projectile. Almost immediately the bullet ripped through the corner of a jacket sending the garments fibres into the glimmer of light from a nearby window. Stepping left, Jack flicked the light switch, there was no one there, “What the...? What on earth is going on?” He had shot the shoulder of his favourite jacket, which was hanging by the door.

            “Am I losing it?” he said, “Must be. I’m talking to myself.”

His breathing was fast he looked at his gun in his hand it was shaking, adrenaline. Never in his life had his hands shook, not even in the fullness of battle. Concentrating so much on his ever decreasing sanity, he almost didn’t hear that someone was knocking furiously on his door. Snapping himself awake again he approached the door with caution and tentatively reached out. His heart was pounding as he added pressure to the brass handle.

 

Author's Note

This is chapter one of a novella, still only in draft form. looking for some opinions. Thanks SR.