I like to travel after Thanksgiving.

I like to travel the week after Thanksgiving. I use guest houses mostly. I don’t like hotels, too many people around and I get worried by people: not afraid; scared is probably the right word.

This year, I planned a trip around the Oregon coastline, starting at Cannon Beach, moving through Warrenton to Ilwaco. I don’t drive. I catch public transport where I can. If necessary, I walk and for sixty-five I’m reasonably fit, fitter than most people expect. In fact, it can catch some of them out.

Today, I caught the bus to Astoria. A nice young man by the bus depot pointed me towards a group of guest houses a short walk from the seafront. I buttoned-up my coat and started walking through the drizzle, dragging my wheelie bag behind me. I walked past a line of ten or more guest houses before I found the right one. I get nervous choosing a place to stay. You know, you take a risk every time you stay somewhere away from home. Generally, you know very little about the people who put you up, and even less about their guests. That’s why I choose smaller places, houses that don’t look too smart, the fewer guests the better. And the one I’ve found suites me fine. One other guest besides me, a younger man, a field engineer by trade, although I don’t know what that means. He did try to explain it to me this evening, but I didn’t catch everything he said before his voice trailed off into a mutter. I can be a bit deaf occasionally. The manager was polite, explaining as he showed me up to my room that at this time of year he was happy to have any guests at all. A single bed stood lonely in the corner, kept company only by a sink, a wardrobe and a table. Dinner was at six, he informed me. The doors shut at ten, so I must be in before then. Like I said, it suited me fine.

So here I am. The road outside my bedroom window is deserted and there are no street lights. My clock says it’s half eleven and I’m lying in bed, scared. Outside, the wind is blowing and the moon is casting shadows through the leafless branches onto the bare cracked walls of my room. I want to get out of bed and go downstairs to the small cosy lounge where my companions kept me company this evening. But I can’t, not until they’re ready.

Outside there’s a sudden gust of wind, sending horses chasing spindly men across the wall. I hug my pillow tighter, scared that not all the shapes are imaginary. A sudden sound makes my heart thump: a siren, almost outside my window shifts down an octave as it passes; blue and red lights urge the horses on, bathing the spindly men in a sea of blood. My heart settles back into a steady rhythm: simply a patrol on its way to some reported incident.  I try to stay calm, relaxed: there are no monsters underneath the bed; nothing is going to break through the wardrobe door; the shapes on the wall are just shadows. I take a deep breath and get out of bed, take a plastic sheet from my bag, walk downstairs into the kitchen and pick up a cleaver. The door to the lounge is still open. I walk in, place the cleaver on the table, close the curtains and turn around to face my two companions, being careful to avoid eye contact. The young man has not finished his drink. I check. He’s had enough. I will have to clean up afterwards. Benzophine leaves a trace unless you use detergent.

I lay the plastic sheeting on the floor. “Now, who wants to be first?” I am not expecting a reply, but picking up the cleaver, I turn to the younger man: smaller, he will be the easier of the two.