stand outside, scowling at them from within her bright cagoule. And then there was the man. He was tall, only his face properly visible. He wore a long brown overcoat, topping it off with darker brown leather gloves and a hat, perhaps a Trilby or something similar. That was brown too with an inch wide band in black running just above the brim. All the others were just going about their day, oblivious of Emily’s tortured journey to the caravan, but the man stared straight at her. He made eye contact and as they passed, he stood still but turned his head to keep her in sight. Emily turned to look back, her view obscured by the heating wires in the rear glass and window corners full of grime that had escaped the wipers and Dave’s sponge. The man steadily disappeared from sight as they continued on but she knew he’d been staring all the time. At her, she was sure. Emily said nothing but simply sat back down in her seat, subconsciously readjusting the left sleeve that hid everything. She could have sworn that the pentagram was burning just a little but then that might just be because it was so new. She spent the rest of the journey thinking about the way he stared, his look as penetrating as the voice she so often heard. But whilst the voice surrounded Emily and left her with no easy escape, it was familiar and oddly comforting in its chill regularity. The man was different. He looked at her as if he knew her, or knew something about her. His eyes cut to her inner self and he didn’t look like he would ever offer comfort.
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