(Disclaimer: This short story contains themes of death, gore, and murder which may be unsettling to younger readers.)
He had always lived here on the island, among the pasty blue sky and feathery pine trees. For all his life, all he had known was the great misty sea around him, the birds that came to rest in winter for their migration, and came back to brood in trees when spring rolled around again.
He was old now, at least eighty, though he wasnât certain. Each season and year faded together. The only time kept hourly, by the sacred clock his father brought over to the island, which sat on the mantelpiece still, a crack zigzagging through its face.
Philip twisted down. His old, weathered hands digging up wet sandy clay and dropping a lump into a rusting punctured bucket, not fit to carry water to the chickens anymore.
 The damp autumn air was building to the bitter winds of winter. He ought to be canning something, preserving something else, and pickling yet another vegetable from the neat rowed garden he grew, filled with seeds, harvested and driven back into the soil every year- but it had rained. The wet clay was easy for his frail body to harvest, it would have been easier with the shovel, but he misplaced it sometime the day before.Â
He inherited his talent from his parents, who used their hands to mold things for practical use. He had watched them, sculpting with whatever he could get his hands on. He sculpted faces and statues that baked in the sun all over the island, angels and birds, fish and busts sculpted from his imagination or the faded pictures in the crumbling bible, less practical than bricks to repair the chimney.
 He hiked carefully down the rocky pile against the shore, his gray hair curling around his face in the breeze. His mind went back to statues. He was starting back on the dreary journey of sculpting a childâs face. He could almost see it in his mind, just too fuzzy around the edges to replicate. Phillip was almost sure that he had seen one before, a long time ago maybeâ He halted, squinting sea spray from his eyes.
On the bleak shore, lay a bundle crumpled in a dark cover
âHello?â His voice echoed off the sand. âHELLO!â He tried again, tripping. He skirted warily around the alien lump. It didnât move.Â
He crept closer, straining his eyes.
He had seen the rigor that comes over a dead thing before, that pale skin, clinging ghostly to the skull.
Though death looked different in a boy than in a squirrel.
A horrible gash sliced the boyâs temple, light bruises splattering half of his face. He wasnât old; his glazed, pasty blue eyes had no lines scratching the corners, no folds in the brow. His coat swaddled around him, buttons glinting cheerfully, with no conscience of their dead owner.Â
Philipâs shaky hands grazed his blonde hair. He had probably drowned, hit his head, and fallen straight into the sea.
He froze as still as the dead, reaching behind his head. It was damp, not with seawater, but with blood. He yanked his hand away, wrinkles trapped the thin watery blood in each fold. He tilted the boyâs face.
A bit of bone pierced through his skin, purple bruises running all over his head. Grotesque fractures under the skin. Philipâs breath was strained. This type of dead was polar to the calm living he had known as reality.Â
Silence was toying with his nerves. He glanced around him. It was too quiet to be safe. Someone had killed this boy â someone who by the small indents leaving the body, was still here.
He crossed the sand over to the footprints, three sets. His own coming from the rocks accounted for one. The corpseâs boots counted for another, but whose shoe prints led off into the grass?Â
The rustling wind was no longer friendly. Chills ran up his spine as he forced himself to walk back towards his house, avoiding the divots in the grass where the intruder had stumbled into the landscape.Â
 The blood of a dead boy stained his hands bright red, the stench of copper lingering about his person. He kept walking, conscious of every misplaced sound.
He locked the door quietly behind him, banking the fire's ashes inside the clay fireplace. Every ratty old curtain was drawn tight over the windows.
Philip sat before the fire, sipping at pine needle tea. He couldnât get it down. His lips trembled, gag rising in his throat.Â
How hideous to think of manslaughter like that, done to someone who only lived a quarter of his own life.
It couldnât have been a bear, for bears didnât live on the little island. The boy had died too recently to have died at sea. The footprints illustrated the story plainly.
He glanced through the curtains, out onto the rainy island, fog carefully shrouding any signs of life from him.
âI am an old fool,â he croaked. âI wonât stay locked up while there's some monster running around the place.â His eyes narrowed, pulling a worn jacket off a hook.
Philip pressed the door open, stepping into the world of ominous fog. The damp grass whistled shrilly, as he crept back towards the shore, nerves bristling.
The body was still there, blue doll eyes staring heavenward.
The scuffling footprints looked smoother than earlier. Phillipâs eyes followed them, each one striking the ground at an odd angle as if the killer had been hobbling. Otherwise, the beach was almost emptyâ
Two metal buckets lay a few yards away. Phillip limped over. They were his buckets, but why were they here? He picked them up. They were filled up with clay, but why? They should be home, collecting rainwater for slip. He hoisted the bucket up. It was too awkward to have killed something.Â
He felt eyes boring into him and spun around slowly. The grass rustled uneasily.Â
Philip forced himself back, feet retracing the little wells in the sand.
The first footprint started after the line of low tide, that was the victimâs footprints, they wove together with the intruders set. He followed, feet walking alongside the pair leading away from the body.
The waving grass didnât give out many hints, just small indents here and there. He followed them, turning in circles. On the ground lay an old and worn black button, much too clean to have been recently dropped. It basked in the grass, as if pleased to know something he didnât.
âWhere did you come from?â he muttered, holding it in his palm, grass whispering breezy warnings in his wake. The island spread all around, like an isolated cage. âWhere did the little bugger come from?â he whispered,Â
He took the surroundings in again, staring at the sea lying below.Â
He hadnât seen the pale face staring up at him from the pine trees.
The world seemed to be full of hiding places, though stunted pine trees provided the most shelter. Each bird tweet echoed like a bullet in his ears. The trees winced at his ignorance.
A rustle flitted softly behind him. Philip squinted at the button in his palm, feet treading further into the grove â a bird flapped up from its rest in a bush nearby. He stared at an indent in the grass. A stick snapped, sending another bird crowing. He stepped backward,Â
Was it a footprint or was it just an indent? Brows knitting, he stiffened at the touch of something brushing his back- his stomach fell.Â
He turned around, slowly, heart jerking to a stop
An ashen face tilted up to him. He looked like a savage, paint running down his face.
He stopped breathing.Â
He scampered, backward-ankle rolling. He hauled himself back to his feet, scrambling through the grass, back through the clearing. His heart thumped in his ears, writhing in his chest.
Crouching primitively in the grass, scouting around him the figure, it didnât come creeping after him.Â
Philipâs chest knotted, tightening with each breath like a python coiled around his lungs.Â
He could barely see, rain pounding on his head. He dragged himself through the nipping grass. The trees loomed all around him, boxing him inside the clearing. He hunched against a tree, eyes darting around.
The afternoon fog froze blood and bile to his face. His eyes flickered, untrusting of the moss on the ground and the geese cawing overhead.
He was hunted in his own territory.
The brush crinkled, snapping his head up. He slowly stood, hobbling silently, through the fog, to the sea.Â
He gasped a lungful of breath, dazed in a state of instinct.
The footprints were barely even outlines now.
He shuffled in circles. Why had he come back to the beach? Philip turned back towards his house, hand skimming over the tall grassâ
Something snagged his ankle, sending him crashing onto his chest. He wheezed, air knocked out of his lungs. The rod rested under his ankle, he kicked it weakly.
He had tripped over his shovel, the very one he had been sure of misplacing. He grasped it, letting a hand slide down the scoop, a rusty red stain trailed up his finger. Not just rust was on that blade.Â
The body came back into his head. Bloody sand around him like a halo.Â
There were footprints here. He followed, with the shovel clutched in his hands. The footprints hobbled up the hill, leading away from the murder weapon.Â
He stood breathless in the fog, an unwelcoming pair of footprints trailing right up to the front door, stopping where a pair of boots were strewn on the deck.
A killer with etiquette.Â
Indoors was quiet as the grave, each breath felt like he was screaming his presence to the killer
RIGHT HERE, BUGGER! COME AND GET ME!Â
He hobbled through the parlor, avoiding each creaky boardâ Shadows startled him, every misplaced dust speck pricking his nerves, he started up the staircase.Â
The two bedrooms were empty of life. A colored flash slipped behind a doorâ Philip held the shovel in his hands, charging after itâ
The curtain flapped again in a draft.Â
Had he left the window open?Â
He stood at the window, staring out at the island-
A groan echoed downstairs.
Sweat beaded off his brow.Â
He inched down the staircase, eyes darting to each corner â the door was wide open.Â
The floor creaked under his feetâ A glimpse of white flickered through the back door. Philip froze, hand slowly reaching for the knob, slowly twisting the cold handle.
Outside looked just as it had earlier: pine trees skirting the cliffed edge of the island, he watched through the cracked door, the long shadows hiding the sea from sight. He opened the door wider, slipping out. He swiftly crossed the clearing, entering the skeletal forest. The light was scarce â something white stuck out of the trees, Philip raised his shovel againâ
It struck with a defining clang on a rock. Birds rose up from the trees, soaring away in the wake of the noise. He wincedâ
A crash of the door slamming broke the uncomfortable quietâ Philip hurried back to the door, heart leaping back into his chest, the wind had picked up, sending small drops of water onto his noseâ He burst into the house, closing the door hastily behind him.
He struggled for breath, racing into the parlor, looking over his shoulderâ
A misplaced shadow lay under the threshold of the old workroom.
All the hair stood up on his arms.
It was ironic to kill a murderer with their own weapon.
Philip barreled through the door, shovel held high. The killer was right there, blank eyes staring right at himâ He slammed the shovel into the face, putting every ounce of his muscle into itâ It fell, knocked by the force, onto his back, shatteringâ
It lay with a crack in its face, staring at the ceiling, chiseled hair unfinished in some parts, damp clay deflating.Â
The white-faced statue lay crushed on the floor
His heart stopped beating.
The way he swung that shovel wasnât the first time.
He fell back into the hazy world of last night.
He woke up in the dark, lying in bed, ears peeled. Howling echoed through the thundering night. Philip stood at his window, peering out the colorful curtain,Â
âWhat in the world?âÂ
The strange sounds coaxed him down the stairs, then outside onto the porch, the rainy night snuffed out the stars. He yanked his old boots on. The phantom called from the beach again. Philip tripped down the stairs, snatching his shovel for support, nervously twisting the button on his coat. He hadnât thought to bring a lantern. He hiked slowly towards the beach, the strained howling shattering the sinister quiet. The dark swallowed him up, leaving the house behind him. Rain pounded off his shoulders, drenching his bedhead.Â
He felt sand under his feet, thunder rumbled overheadâ Something alive and squirming collided into his chest-knocking Philip to the ground, leg twisting sharply, pain throbbed through his hipâ He thrashed, sand caking in his eyesâ the shovel around, slamming it into the unseen beast lost in the dark.
It felt like a nightmare.
Philip sank to the floor. What had he done? He gulped down a breath, another breath, another breath. He lay still on the floor, heart lulling, eyes glassy.Â
The day had gone by faster than he thought possible, yet he felt like he had accomplished nothing.
âYour memory isnât as good as it once was, old chap.â He sighed to himself
He sat on the edge of the empty beach, high tide had come in. His hands loosely tossing a lump of clay back and forth, there was a fuzzy image in his mind, a face with large doll eyesâ Philip was impressed with his own imaginationâ
âThe old gentleman used to live here, his name was Phillip James.â Will rifled through the papers on the warped poorly made parlor table. âHe passed away a few weeks ago, decomposition has been going on for a while. His parents moved to this old house a few years after he was born. â He slumped, the effects of a cold cup of black coffee wearing off. He was supposed to be on vacation, but the Carltons wanted the body of their son. He glanced up at his colleague.âWhat is it, Kent?âÂ
âCharlie Carlton was blonde?â Kent asked.Â
âYes.â Will sighed sadly, âI talked to Mrs. Carlton yesterday, she said he was on the way back to England to see her and Mr Carlton for his birthday. Why do you ask?â
âWill, you have got to see this.âÂ
âWhat are you talking about?â Will stood up from the moth-eaten chair, following Kent through the dingy house, he glanced up the staircase. Earlier they found the body of Mr. James, dead in his bed. He shuddered, a rat scampering across the abandoned dusty floor.
 Kent pushed the stuck door open, stepping into an extra room. Scattered with mice droppings, both windows shattered, lumps of rock-hard clay resting on every work surface, tools scattering the groundâ there was a bust, half-finished on the table, molded to perfection, thin blonde hair swooped over the scalp, big eyes, almost doll-like staring at the ceiling.
Will swore quietlyÂ
âI think we found Charlie.âÂ