The Facilitator©

Music Theme: The Collector - Villain Song

https://youtu.be/jLDy0M4WqnM?si=J0FnngK5fjXxTWSq

The SOLD sign appeared very quickly. It must have only been two weeks since the last Open For Inspection. There had been some level of interest in the old dilapidated two storey this time. Harry told Sue he still thought it wouldn't sell at all since it was a deceased estate and in such a run down and damaged condition.

It reminded him of a museum. Sort of Gothic run amok, as the original house had been extended several times by various owners. This latest owner would later become known, in the neighbourhood, as Crazy Joe. He was a little weird. A lot weird Harry thought if pressed for an opinion.

Harry remembered when they had first laid eyes on the new neighbour. That night would be etched in his memory forever.

That night the glow of the streetlights had cast long shadows across Elm Street, transforming the familiar houses and outbuildings stretched over the one acre blocks into hushed and faintly lit sentinels against the encroaching night. For Harry and Sue, their spacious bungalow was more than just a home; it was a sanctuary, a fastidiously constructed haven against the ache of their childless years.

Each lovingly tended rose bush in their garden, each shining polished floorboard within their walls, spoke of a persistent hope, the fragile optimism that had clung to them like the child they so richly desired. Their life together, a delicate balance of dreams and fervent reassurances of hope for the future.

The occasional distant siren, the isolated rumble of a late-night truck – these were acceptable intrusions, background noise that underscored the prevailing peace of their blissful semi rural lifestyle. But that night, that peace was about to be shaken by the arrival of something entirely alien to them.

The first hint of change was the low, guttural growl of a V8 engine, a sound that seemed to rip through that otherwise silent night. A dark limo, its black paint shining as it passed each light and then faded like a forgotten memory into the night, its headlights erratically cutting intrusively through the surrounding darkness. It cruised to a halt directly across the street, in front of the dilapidated house that had stood vacant for many months the weathered for sale sign a testament to the lack of interest in the house’s demise.

The rear door had flung open with the silencing of the engine's final roar, revealing a slow, deliberate emergence of a singular figure. He seemed shrouded in fog, a silhouette against the dim interior lights of the limo. Even before he had stepped fully into the light, there was an aura of unsettling strangeness about him. It was more than just the still, almost furtive way he surveyed his new surroundings; it was a low note of unease that seemed to radiate from him like a chilling vapour. He stepped onto the asphalt, his movements slow, as if not much accustomed to the act of walking.

Harry, who had been tidying up in the kitchen, paused, his mind going back to that night he had been lost in thought, his gaze fixed on the unfolding scene through the kitchen window.

Sue joined him, her hand instinctively cuddling up to his arm, her touch a quiet anchor in the turbulent sea of Harry's emotions. They watched silently, a shared breath held between them, as the figure escaped the nearby street lights. He was a man of indeterminate age, his frame was quite gaunt, almost skeletal, draped in what seemed at a distance ill-fitting clothes perpetually rumpled, as if he had slept in them. His hair, a tangled mass of unbrushed grey and brown, fell haphazardly around a face that seemed craggy but surprisingly clear as he stood beneath the real estate lights. But it was his eyes that had grabbed their attention. They seemed to dart around, never settling, constantly scanning the periphery, as if expecting something to materialize out of thin air.

This was their new neighbour. The whispers had already begun circulating through Elm Street and beyond like some phantom breeze of discontent. He was “Crazy Joe,” the real estate agent, from Charity's business, had christened him with a dismissive shrug, a recluse, a bit of an odd bod. But seeing him now, emerging from the shadows of that limo, “odd” felt like a gross understatement.

There was a disquieting wildness about him, a raw, untamed energy that felt entirely out of place on their manicured street. His presence was jarring, a discordant note in the symphony of their predictable lives. The quiet hope that had sustained Harry and Sue felt suddenly fragile, a delicate bloom threatened by an encroaching frost.

The predictable rhythm of their days, so carefully cultivated, was about to be disrupted by a darkness they couldn’t yet comprehend, a darkness that had seemingly taken root in the very heart of their familiar world. Sue could ‘feel’ him, priding herself on being somewhat of an empath, almost as much as she took pride in her career as an accomplished and award winning chef.

He surveyed the house that stood out as a relic of a forgotten era, it had become known as the 'Nightmare on Elm Street', the house that had been vacant for so long it had begun to seem like a permanent fixture of the street's quiet melancholy.

This was the house that was now about to be occupied. The driver, a younger man, had held the door open as the contrasting dishevelled figure had slowly, deliberately, emerged.

He moved with a peculiar, almost cautious gait, as if the very act of navigating the cracked pavement was a monumental undertaking. Harry and Sue now watched from their porch to get a better vantage point, a silent, united vigil against the encroaching unknown.

Harry, ever the pragmatist, tried to find a rational explanation for the man’s disheveled appearance and the general air of neglect that seemed to cling to him. It seemed the house was a perfect match for him.

Perhaps he was an artist, a painter or a sculptor or maybe a famous author they were yet to meet and greet. Then again maybe just some eccentric old coot with a penchant for the macabre.

But even as he tried to rationalize, a prickle of unease crawled up his spine. There was something about the way the man’s eyes, like orbs of dark ebony, flicked from the limo to the houses, to the trees that lined the street, that felt predatory, watchful. He wasn't just moving in; he was assessing his territory.

Sue shivered, despite the mildness of the evening air. Her own anxieties, the ever-present longing for a child, seemed to be amplified in the face of this new presence. The man’s appearance was a stark contrast to the normalcy of Elm Street. His clothes were threadbare, his hair a wild, untamed mane that cascaded around his shoulders, framing a face that was gaunt, etched with a deep, perpetual weariness, yet held a disturbing and incongruent alertness. He didn't interact with the driver; there was no casual nod, no shared glance. It was as if they were actors in a silent play, an unsettling ritual, each playing their assigned part without the need for any form of human connection.

The man – “Crazy Joe,” as the neighborhood rumor mill had already christened him – began to unload his meager possessions from the boot. There were no familiar household items, no brightly colored boxes clearly labeled. Instead, he wrestled with heavy, canvas-wrapped bundles, their contents a mystery. With the driver's assistance he managed to move them with an unusual economy of motion, his long, lean frame conveying a surprising strength, yet his movements were punctuated by moments of unsettling stillness, as if he were listening to something only he could hear. He’d stop, his head tilted, his eyes fixed on some unseen point in the distance, before resuming his task.

Harry noticed the car’s license plate: it was from out of state, far from their quiet corner of the world. The man’s arrival felt less like a move and more like an infiltration. He wasn't joining their community; he was inserting himself into it, a foreign body disrupting a carefully balanced ecosystem. The perfectly manicured lawns, the carefully pruned hedges, the neat rows of mailboxes – all seemed to recoil from the chaotic energy emanating from the new arrival.

Sue watched as Joe paused, his gaze sweeping across their house, lingering for a moment on the rose bushes that Harry had so carefully nurtured. It was a fleeting glance, but it was charged with an unreadable intent. It was then that the true weight of his presence settled upon her. This wasn’t just a peculiar neighbour; this was an unknown variable, an unpredictable force that had landed squarely in the middle of their carefully constructed peace. It didn't sit well with her that the safe and secure haven she had always planned for her future children had been infiltrated. The seeds of unease, sown by his mere arrival, began to sprout, their roots delving deep into her own insecurity. The predictable rhythm of Elm Street was about to be thrown into disarray, and in the quiet glow of the streetlights, a shadow, both literal and metaphorical, had begun to touch her very soul.

Over the next week they had noticed the man’s comings and goings were as erratic as his appearance. He’d disappear into the house for days, only to emerge at odd hours of the night, his silhouette a fleeting shadow against the dimly lit windows. There were no sounds of normal home life – no music, no television, no friendly greetings. The house remained a silent enigma, its secrets locked behind the peeling paint and the boarded-up window panes. Lights would flicker erratically within the house, not the steady glow of a light or lamp, but a pulsating yellow light powered by an unseen, perhaps unstable, source.

Harry tried to reassure Sue that he was just an eccentric individual, that their lives would continue as normal. But even he found himself glancing more frequently towards Joe’s property, his mind replaying the unsettling details of that first night. The way Joe’s eyes had seemed to stare at their home that both isolated him as a loner and made him a focal point of their unease.

The hope that had been their shield against the emptiness of their lives now felt increasingly vulnerable, like a flame flickering in a gathering storm. The old Elm Street, the comforting predictability of their lives seemed like a distant memory. It was replaced by a constant dread of a new neighbor; who was a harbinger, of doom a symbol of the disruption that had, without warning, arrived on their doorstep.

Harry had already decided after that night that he didn't like their new neighbour, His wife, Sue, had been a little more forgiving.

Perhaps because she was home more. She had made several attempts to get to know Joe over the past few weeks. But something about him just hadn't been quite right. Right from the start, he had made it quite clear that he wished to be left alone. She remembered how she had made a batch of her famous hot scones, complete with a small tub of homemade strawberry jam and a tub of freshly whipped cream, and happily took it over to welcome him the day he had officially moved in.

He hadn't come to the door when she tapped the lion head shaped doorknocker so she left the plastic dinner plate on the front doorstep. It was still there when she returned after fetching a pen and paper from her house. She scribbled a quick welcome note and invitation to meet for an introductory drink with her and her husband, Harry.

The next day she was shocked to discover her present sitting atop Joe's dust-laden garbage bin. She had approached the house with some optimism that morning expecting to meet her new neighbour who would thank her profusely for her thoughtful, generous and delicious gift. After all, that was how it was supposed to be wasn't it? Her going out of her way to be kind, and the recipient heaping praise upon their unknown benefactor.

As she got closer she noticed the curtains in the front window being drawn to. She wandered over to the bin and saw that her note was still sitting under the plate. Something in red had been scrawled across the bottom - 'Don't like scones give me wind.'

She found herself chuckling herself out of her disappointment and as she raised her head up from the note, she had the feeling that eyes were watching her. She wasn't entirely sure how to take this insult. She had been insulted a few times before on Facebook and Twitter, mostly due to her speaking her mind out loud in person, and in capitals on social media. But never about her cooking.

It was the one safe place she thought she had, security and peace in the certain knowledge that everyone thought her an excellent chef. After all, she had written several books and appeared as a guest on several lifestyle TV shows, and been a guest judge on a few of the better cooking shows. It was crazy, she knew, but why was she so upset by someone not liking her scones. Whoever was behind those curtains, the person she would later come to know as Crazy Joe, had wounded her. She was about to summon the courage to confront her attacker when the curtain was pulled back exposing a dishevelled individual. He was leering at her. She wheeled away in alarm, and thought she heard mottled laughter accompanying her hasty retreat to the safety of her spotless kitchen.