Fresh Mountain Start

5

There was no sign that anything had happened to the car in the morning. No footprints, no signs of movement at the treeline, no traces of whatever had been in the yard the night before. Gary gave him a look of 'I told you so' before kissing him goodbye and driving off.

John didn't head back inside, though.

First, he spent an hour or two walking around the property. He hadn't really spent much time outside of the house over the last week; he wanted to see what was just beyond the first line of trees. Nothing stood out to him, though. Trees, trees, some rocks and logs and sticks, and then more trees. A handful of puddles from the storm. No footprints, no scratches, nothing to indicate that he had seen anything. Nothing.

Then, he stepped off the property for the first time in a week, and started to walk down the mountain toward the village. He took his phone out and popped his earphones in, tuning in to a lofi playlist that kept out the silence of the forest around him, hoping it would distract him from the feeling that he was being watched. He walked cautiously, careful not to trip on the loose rocks or roots on the side of the road, one eye on the ground, the other scanning the scenery around him.

He hadn't really stopped to appreciate the beauty of the surroundings, in the week that they'd been in the house, not having left the confines of the copse to be able to see them well. The snow topped peaks of the mountain range stretched out into the distance, their tree covered flanks a swaying, shifting pattern of oranges, reds and greens. The sky seemed wider here, and higher up, than it had in the city. The air seemed cleaner too. Had it not been for the strange occurrence of the night before, he might have said it was the perfect view to wake up to.

Something shifted in the tree line that snapped his attention back. He couldn't see it well enough, but it looked like it was moving alongside him in the dark spaces under the canopy. He stopped and stared, but whatever it was, he couldn't make it out.

'It's just a fox,' he told himself. 'It's just a fox. A big fox.'

It took him the better part of an hour, repeating that mantra as he went, to reach the village. He knew he wouldn't be making this trip regularly on foot, given that it would take even longer to walk back going uphill, but Gary was right. They really needed to start setting down roots and making friends, if they didn't want to die of boredom and loneliness.

The village was so small that it barely had a name. It consisted of little more than a main road, replete with the staple chip shop and Indian takeaway, a grocery shop and a post office, each with a small flat built on top. Two culs-de-sac split off from the road, lined with small bungalows with pretty gardens, and he knew there was a pub a few miles down the road on the far side. Off in the distance, he could see the rising fumes of the factory that the village serviced. Something to do with chemicals and plastics. Gary had told him, but he couldn't quite remember.

The streets were empty. The takeaways hadn't opened yet, and he imagined that most of the rest of the village had already headed off to work. The little shop was open though, and he knew they needed eggs and milk, so he headed over.

He entered, expecting to see nobody, and found the cashier and a woman in a deep conversation. A conversation which stopped almost immediately when the door bleeped to say that he had entered.

'Umm, hello,' he said.

'Umm hello, or hello?' the woman asked. A wide build, brown hair with flecks of grey, and a face set halfway between a grimace and irritation.

'Don't know you,' the cashier said. Sweat stains patched his shirt. His hair seemed have been styled by days worth of grease.

'We've just moved-'