Paranoia

I don't know if it's because I have started posting again or that something is truly amiss and brewing but I'm sure that I was followed today. I'm somewhere on the South coast in a small village overlooking a secluded bay. I am staying with friends who are locals and have been living here for generations, there are a number of tourists in the village so I don't stand out too much. They have strong ties with the area beyond the village and surrounding environs, they are tied to the sea and have purer blood than most. Their auras are bright and strong and at certain times throughout the year they return beneath the waves to commune with others of their kind. When the tides are high and the moon is full, the children of the sea walk back into the waves to join together and maintain tradition. In this area there is an ancient legend that a village exists beneath the surface of the usually deceptively calm waters and that when conditions are correct and the wind is blowing in the right direction you can stand on the well rounded pebbles of the shore and hear the church bell ringing. My friends confirmed this legend, they and their friends and family do in truth meet in the church of a village long since abandoned.

Their solidly built, three century old cottage stands at the edge of the village close to the cliff path that leads down to the beach nearby. This morning was a perfect day to dawdle on the ten minute walk to the village centre, I aimed to take breakfast at the local pub before buying some ingredients so that I could treat my hosts to lunch before their two kids returned from school. I have been staying here for a couple of weeks and have been so welcome that I cannot help but feel guilty. The otherworld community, well those that aren't embroiled in power struggles and petty battles, stick together in a way that I could not have imagined in my old life. Even the children, a boy and a girl aged 9 and 12 respectively, have been brought up to give all to those within their community, this is extended to all who come with a recommendation or request for assistance from close friends or family. Patrick knew this family through Sue, who worryingly I have not heard from since she moved away from Portsmouth at the same time I moved in with Patrick and Paul. Since I have been here we have spoken of Sue only twice, I get the impression that they knew her reasonably well, but we have not entered into any detail of how they are connected or how we were involved.

The narrow lane from the cottage met the single track road a hundred metres from the front door, I was in high spirits when I set off towards the village proper. I could hear a skylark singing in the meadow beyond the high hedge to my right. This has so many happy memories and a few rose unbidden from the depths of my mind. One involved Emma in the days when we were young and in love, before the harsh realities of life ground us down and the strain of parenthood took its toll. I struggled with this for some time before the distinctive sound of an approaching diesel engine dragged me back to reality. The bus leaving the village forced me to find a convenient break in the hedgerow and wait until it had passed. It was then that I thought I first saw someone watching me; a figure stood outside the post office, just visible around the final bend as the road approached the village. It was tall and very obviously male with wide shoulders and thick legs. He wore a loose brown overcoat which seemed too thick for the warm day that  we were currently experiencing. I glanced down at the muddy bank as I descended from the hedgerow breaking the line of sight for a mere second, when I looked up he was gone. Unperturbed I continued to the village and reached the pub a few minutes later.

The pub opened early for breakfast and was quite busy when I arrived. I ordered and sat quietly awaiting my food. The sausage, bacon and scrambled edges were, I knew, from a local farm and were amazingly tasty. I gave the plate my full attention until it was empty. When I looked up and towards the bar I was sure that I saw, at the periphery of my vision, the same figure I had seen earlier leave through the front door, but when I turned my head and focussed there was nothing. I paid for my breakfast and left feeling somewhat disconcerted. The small shop was empty which allowed the bored assistant to help me find the ingredients on my list quickly. I paid and was on the road back to the cottage within moments. As I rounded the gradual bend leaving the village behind I felt the urge to look back over my shoulder, as I did so I saw the figure standing as he had before, directly in the middle of the road outside the post office. This time I maintained my line of sight, turning slowly so that at no time was the figure obscured by the bend in the road. I stood, carrier bag in hand for perhaps five minutes before he raised an arm to point at me. Then he turned and walked away until he was out of sight.

Lunch went well and was appreciated. My hosts have my ultimate thanks and gratitude. The figure from the village has unsettled me.