He peered out of the eyes that were only slits, the darkness behind them seeming to show an emptiness within, and yet he smiled. His teeth were white and unnaturally straight for a man of seventy five and seemed to be the only living thing about him. He stood as erected as he was able and still slouched heavily from his arched spine. His fellow man took pity on him and he used that to take advantage of them in ways they would never notice. His existence was a solitary one, but that is what he preferred; mortal connections meant nothing to him.

The shack which he called home was equally as plain and crumpled as he was and looked as if it may fall in upon itself with the slightest gust of wind, but it stood as it had done for the past hundred years: rooted to the spot and lonely except for whomever lived there. There was never more than one occupant at a time and they always loved solitude. Stepan went out every day at the same time and made his rounds before returning and eating his meager supper alone in the dim light of a couple tall wax candles.

Despite his advanced age and his almost startling ugliness, he was able to pass among the townspeople almost unnoticed unless he wished to be seen. This enabled him to prey upon them as he was privy to much troubling information shared between close friends or family simply because they didn’t notice him listening. Their sleepy town had very little crime, but the power to stir up trouble with nary a word gave him great satisfaction. Never having occasion heretofore to put this power to use, he kept his mental banks stocked with information on nearly everybody in town.

Stepan deposited the information daily onto paper when he returned home, furiously scribbling away in his shadowy room well into the night as he recalled what had been heard throughout the day.

BANG BANG BANG

The sound of an open hand striking his door resonated through the whole room, for his home consisted of only a single room. He jumped at the sound and rose lethargically to answer the door.

Behind the planks stood a tall, blond man leaning on the door post. He breathed laboriously and showed signs of having been in a struggle. The bruises and scrapes which he had received posed no threat to his life, but Stepan invited him inside, reverting back to his humanity rather than acting out of self-interest.

This colossus sat in the only chair in the place, which creaked worryingly under his immense weight. Stepan stood and watched, unsure how to treat a guest. He watched as the man took notice, by degrees, of the scrawled words in front of him and began to fill with panic.

“No,” he muttered. He reached with surprising speed for the long, slender kitchen knife on the chopping block to his left. The great man turned toward him after hearing his voice, only in time to receive a cut from the knife across his neck. He tried to stand before falling to the floorboards and the remaining life leaked from his veins.

For the first time, Stepan felt real power in his hands, along with anxiety. This colossal man must be disposed of discreetly. He knew he could have no hope of dragging the body, and so he took up the knife again. Soon, his hands were red with the blood of his first victim, which permanently stained the floorboards.