Marston had stalked his cheating whore of an ex girlfriend and her new “lover boy” for the two weeks following the murder of his mother, carefully noting their movements and patterns, even slipping a tracking device beneath the bumper of his two timing little slut of a former girlfriend’s car, and then, on a night as cold as a witch’s heart, he had followed them to an old hunting cabin up in the hills about sixty miles from town.

He had gone to the cabin time and time again while he stalked the two lovebirds, sealing all of the windows and drilling holes on both sides of the door frame into which he fitted holders that he had custom created himself (Whoever knew that taking shop class could come in so handy!) that, once in place and a bar dropped between them, blocked the door completely.

Then had come the night he had been waiting for them when the two lovers had gone up to the cabin for a tryst.

He had tracked them as they had headed for the cabin, then, after taking some back roads to get there ahead of them, he had waited patiently till almost midnight, watching from his hiding place till he had been fairly sure that they were down for the night, and then he had made his move.

He had gone to the little pile of brush to one side of the cabin where he had hidden the beam that would go across the door and the canvas bag holding the brackets, doing his best to make as little noise as possible…

After all, he hadn’t wanted to spoil the surprise, now had he?

Creeping up to the door, he felt along the edges till he found the holes he had drilled and then placed the brackets in them, then added the beam.

And then he had doused the entire cabin in gasoline from the stock of cans he had been surreptitiously sneaking up and concealing with brush the same way he had the beam and brackets.

Then he had gotten the tiki torch he had hidden with the rest of the stuff and the aluminum baseball bat and returned to the cabin…

And using the aluminum baseball bat he had begun going around the entire cabin banging on the walls and shouting, calling the little tramp and her lover everything he could think of, mocking them, driving them to a state of panic.

And as their panic had built, his strength had begun to grow, and he had begun to feel invincible.

But the rush he had gotten at the wave of sheer terror that had emanated from that cabin when he had begun lighting the gasoline drenched wood, yelling the entire time that he was going to send their cheating, two timing asses to hell, had been almost enough to overload his system.

Oh how he had reveled in their screams and the sounds of pounding and shattering glass as they had tried to escape!

How he had howled with manic, glorious, vindicated laughter when he had seen their terrified faces at the sealed windows…windows across which he had mounted steel bars that had fit into the brackets he had so carefully custom created and placed over every single window, and which were padlocked!

Luckily for him the cabin had had only had five windows, two in the front, one in the bedroom, one in the bathroom and one over the kitchen sink, and that they all had been fairly small, for it meant that the bars had not required much lifting to mount.

He waited for about thirty minutes after it went silent, then he gathered all of the plastic gas containers up and dumped them on the huge pile of brush he had set up for just that purpose, after which he set it ablaze.

Anyone investigating the scene would play hell getting finger prints, for he had also worn heavy leather gloves to hang the bars on the windows and the one on the door.

And he had always made sure to wear gloves when he had been preparing the cabin and to remove any possibly incrimination evidence of his having been there.

He had whistled all the way back to the truck…

Totally unaware that the watch with its custom family crest engraved on the face that his father had given him as a graduation present had fallen off of his wrist into a flower bed beneath the bedroom window of the cottage…

A watch that had been engraved with the words “To my son, Marston, the graduate”.

Marston had driven back to town and returned home only long enough to pitch the tent, storage chests and suitcases that he had packed and prepared for this occasion into the back of his pickup, then he had headed out of town without once looking back.

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About MARANTHA DREAMWEAVER JENELLE

WRITER'S USE WORDS TO PAINT PICTURES ON THE CANVASES OF THEIR READER'S MINDS. marantha d. jenelle/aka 'maradjen'

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