First attempt at fiction in decades. Don't hold back!

TW for implied SA

He found them as a hunter finds an injured animal; through silence, stealth, and by following little drops of blood on leaves. The ads were the easiest, as it gave him an excuse to be inside their home. Handyman needed. Seeking housesitter for the weekend. Light repair work. He chose which ones to answer as carefully as one handles fine china, turning them over and examining them carefully before making a choice. Occasionally, he would be wrong. Once inside the house he would see that this one would fight, this one would scream, the neighbors were too close and had noticed his car parked outside. In those instances he would install the light switch, patch the drywall, wave them off as they drove away for two or three days. They would return to nothing out of place, and thank him for being trustworthy.

Sometimes, they allowed him to do what he wanted with no complaint or hesitation, or with an eagerness that startled him into impotence. These he left safely in their beds, usually before they'd awakened and forced him to talk about himself or his life. He could wear the mask, but only for so long before it began to slip.

The rest - the right ones, the meticulously selected - he left where they lay, skin smeared with bruises and stippled with the marks left by his teeth. He never bothered to check the news for reports of his actions. He was skilled in both humiliation and terror, and knew the effectiveness of both.

Tonight, he pulls his car to the curb and turns off the engine. He has brought virtually nothing with him, save for a small overnight bag with a change of clothes, a toothbrush, and a handful of condoms loose at the bottom of the bag. His habits are fastidious, and he always uses the toothbrush, even if an overnight stay doesn't happen. He brushes the blood from his teeth and if there is any available, rinses with mouthwash before leaving. The condoms he wears less for his protection than to ensure no trace of him is left behind. Sometimes there are curls of his skin and one night, a great clump of his hair left under their fingernails, but he is more careful now. He knows the first instinct after an encounter with him is to shower. Blood, skin, and hair will be washed away and lost. Once, he was careless and took a knee to the face. His nose crunched audibly and there was a river of blood. He took out his anger on her body, leaving her curled on one side, her knees drawn up to her chest to protect the stomach he'd battered black and purple. He thought for a time that she was dead, but she began to cry and moan while he scrubbed the blood - his and hers, mixed together in great whorls - from the floor. When he left he took the kitchen gloves, sponges, and towels with him in a garbage bag. Once home, he tossed the bag in a dumpster, then went upstairs and studied his face in the mirror. He reset the broken nose himself and went to bed, exhausted and a little frightened at the suddenness of his violence.

That was years ago, and he has long since healed. There is a slight bump just below the bridge of his nose, but it has done nothing to damage his prospects. If anything, it softens his face into a sort of everyman anonymity. He is not model beautiful, but he is a handsome man. The broken nose has given him just the right amount of asymmetry. Good looking, but not unapproachable.

He tosses his wallet and keys into the overnight bag, which he slings over his shoulder. He does not climb from the car so much as unfold himself from it. He is tall, but not intimidatingly so. His shoulders are broad and his back still tapers into a waist that has not yet thickened or gone soft. He is not chiseled or overly muscular; he has previously found this to be a hindrance. Rather, he is simply what most people would call a pretty big guy. I bet you played football, strangers would say, and he would nod agreeably and flash a smile full of straight white teeth. The men would clap him on the back and make small talk about sports. The women would often recoil, and later tell their friends that he was cute until he smiled and the grin became that of a shark.

He has since learned to let the smile travel up to his eyes, and this disarms all but the most observant.

The messages he has exchanged with the homeowner direct him to enter the gate and walk through the backyard to a side door. He is pleased with this, as it allows him to survey the entry and exit points. The block was studded with what had once been stately, grand houses. They were now in varying states of repair, but he knew there would be beautiful woodwork and strange nooks and crannies in the interiors. Maybe, he muses, he would come back to this place and leave a head resting on a hand carved mantle, arms and legs neatly folded on the built in shelves. He is not yet to this point, but the thought makes something tighten in the pit of his belly.

The street is heavy with old growth trees, some of which shade nearly the entire lawn. Their branches droop and bend, and in the back of this particular house rest on the ground itself. A light breeze is cool and pleasant. It is, he thinks, a perfect evening as summer eased into fall. Soon, there will be a chorus of nighttime insect noises, and you can almost forget you were in the city.

A light throws a soft glow on the far side of the yard, probably over the door he is to enter. Upstairs, another light burns through sheer curtains that flutter almost imperceptibly. He stands at the gate for a little too long, staring at the window, hoping her silhouette will darken the glass. When it doesn't, he shakes himself out of the reverie and opens the gate. There is a slight click when he closes the latch behind him.

The yard is broad and deep, dominated by the tree that grows from a massive trunk. The lawn is well manicured, the grass soft and short and whispering under his feet. He wonders absently how long the tall, narrow house and the expansive tree have been coexisting. The tree seems as if it has always been there, it's roots grasping the ground so deeply that no amount of digging would unearth them.

He finds himself standing still, and does not know when his feet stopped carrying him toward the door. It is much darker here, on the lawn, with the tree and the house looming over him. The breeze lifts his hair from his collar, and his mouth is full of a taste like copper. The air is thick with ozone, although no storms have been predicted. He must get inside before rain comes, and begins to walk.

It is then that he realizes he is enveloped in utter silence. The sounds that are taken for granted, the slight crunch as he crosses the grass, the occasional birdsong, the distant hum of the highway, have been stripped away. Under the great tree with reaching branches is a vacuum. It is so silent he only hears a ringing in his ears.

In his fear, an emotion he is unable to process despite so freely inflicting it others, he does not notice the upstairs light has gone dark.

Still, he is drawn to the door and it's singular glow by her voice on the phone. High and sweet with the slightest hint of smoke, he knew she would be worth it. He is unable to understand why he does this, only that he must. It does not matter what she looks like or how old she is, only that she is there. He knows that someday, this will no longer satiate him and he will graduate to a different kind of horror.

He lifts feet that are inexplicably leaden and continues his walk to the door. The gate is at his back, but it never occurs to him to turn and run. The door seems no closer, but his footsteps become lighter as he walks, regaining control of the situation.

Perhaps fifty yards into the lawn the branches of the tree are directly over him. He tilts his head back and looks straight up, and marvels at the darkness among the leaves. They are so densely packed as to be a canopy, hiding him from sight. The tree arcs and weaves around him in a huge circle, the trunk at a rough center point.

His feet carry him forward. There is no sound.

Absently, he reaches out and brushes his hand against one of the limbs. It is merely rough bark, and the lichens disturbed by his fingers sift to the grass like dust.

Ahead of him, the tree wrapped in the darkness of the leaves, something shifts. If he were a different man, he would have run, screaming, by now. If he were a different man, he would never have come here in the first place.

Instead, he keeps walking and the tree looms ever larger in his path. The door into the house, where she presumably waits, is now to his left and slightly behind him. He is torn by his fascination and the desire to go to her, and his mind churns with what he will do once she can no longer disobey.

He takes a step forward.

The leaves rustle and it is then that he sees the trunk of the tree is split. In the center of the gash is a woman, her back and shoulders shrouded in the blackness beyond them. Her face is impassive, devoid of expression. Only her eyes sparkle and dance in the blue-green darkness.

The man stops. The bag slips from his shoulder and lands at his feet, spilling its contents. His legs do not shake, they simply collapse beneath him. He is on his knees in the grass and the branches are very close and it is very dark.

The woman smiles. She extends her arms, and they are smooth and strong. Her hands come to rest on his shoulders. The fingers, long and thin, wrap themselves around to his back. She is gentle.

The gaping black maw around and behind her widens. She takes a single step forward, as far as her legs, one of which twists into the ground, rooted, will allow.

Had he time for thought, in the final seconds his brain would have babbled a prayer to every god he never believed in, frantic in its efforts to escape the terror he feels for the first time in his life. Instead, a gout of blood spurts upward from where he rests. It seems the droplets hang suspended for a fraction of a second, then patter to the ground like rain. When they land and spatter, the ground drinks them in as if in drought. The meticulously clipped grass is undisturbed. The overnight bag is the only object out of place.

Over the door, a light goes out. The lawn is shrouded in darkness.

A breeze picks up, strengthens into a gust of wind, and recedes. From somewhere in the yard, a cricket begins to chirp.