ONE HUNDRED TWENTY-NINE
The Haunting of Chloe Macbeth cont.
I knew the fucker was there.
I couldn’t see him.
I couldn’t smell him or hear him, but I knew he was there.
Call it intuition or a feral instinct, but I could sense his presence, sense his eyes on my back. It was a deep brooding sentience, and I could feel the hair on the back of my neck prickling, sticking up like the fur on a cat as it arches it’s back.
I knew the fucker was there somewhere close by. Watching. Waiting. Lurking like a pike in the reeds, the unseen danger in the long grass.
I was on my way home from work. I’d finished my shift at Simpson’s at 5.30 and caught the bus from town.
I had crossed over Haywood Street, down Willow Road and across the open space in front of, Laughton House, my block of flats. I ope
