Listening quietly, observing now, he had followed them easily. Guile was second nature to him. It was in his blood, but it was the blood of others he had on his mind today. Firstly, though, came the research. Facts were precious here and gleaning information was a lengthy but rewarding experience. He had, for example, recently discovered that the grieving widow was not in quite as much turmoil as she appeared to be. She was, in reality, neither forlorn nor destitute and he would have been happy with just a quarter of the money she had squirrelled away. Right now, however, he was observing yet another argument between the obnoxious lady from the mansion and the equally uptight scholar. Fuelling this little tête-à-tête was useful and it amused him. He cared little over what they were bickering, just that they were. It also sounded like the stuck up bitch had a new animal to replace the mongrel he had poisoned earlier. Pointing the finger at the scholar had been easy, and he needed a scapegoat because next time the stakes would be substantially higher.

He paused then. Something wasn't right. He didn't know what but he knew he must leave. Trusting his instincts had got him this far and had saved his skin at least twice recently. The first time, while observing the widow he had almost been discovered by the thief. Luckily this particular Artful Dodger was an amateur. Had her stealth matched her ambition, she may well have been the first resident of the Estate to lay eyes on the mysterious Hangman. It wouldn't have done her any good, of course, for she would have died before a breath left her lips. That would have been a pity, for she had a role in things to come as well. The second close encounter had involved his next door neighbour - the middle aged, self-pitying ex-rock star. The man had certainly heard something that night. The question was, had he seen anything? Probably not, but it didn't pay to be uncertain.

The man vanished. Seconds later a bough snapped, drawing the attention of the squabblers below. Must have been the wind they thought. The ghostly assassin crept silently away on a path long travelled yet showing no sign of human passage.

Off an ancient, venerated Mayan manuscript he sustained unending fear. That was how he lived his invisible life - in accordance with the ancient and powerful doctrine. He relished the text's extrapolated vision of a future world filled to the extreme with total, unadulterated dread, fear and, above all, death. It appealed to that ineffable calling within him and drew him inextricably into a life of subterfuge and shadows. An irascible heart tempered by a heightened sense of awareness and self preservation left his whole being laced with irony, and it was that ironic part of himself that lead to his next devious move.

* * * * * * *

A blackbird singing a melody. A bullfrog crooning the bass. The wind whistling a descant. An opera of nature that went unheard by the occupant of the darkened room. Dave Villesent shrugged his shoulders in a vain attempt to appease his itchy neck. It only made things worse, however, as the thick rope around his throat scratched him even more. With his hands bound behind him only his legs were free to move and, he thought dryly, he was nowhere near nimble enough to scratch himself with his feet. Maybe in his younger rock-n-roll years. Those times were long gone as the Dive Shop owner sat alone in the dark trying desperately to slow his frantic pulse rate. He had no idea how he got here and that was worrying enough to begin with. Trying to think, he was momentarily blinded as a light flashed on. Squinting, Dave just made out a silhouette. "Who are you?" he managed to stammer. "Why," said the figure in a voice that sounded eerily familiar, "I'm you." The man stepped forward into the light. Dave was shocked. This man was the spitting image of himself. "I don't understand." Dave said, his heart rate climbing again. But then he did.

"Realising the situation, Villesent?" the Hangman asked.
"I'm in the Hangman's House."
"Yes."
"Your house."
"Yes."
"And you plan to, what, replace me?"
"Indeed."
"Why?"
"Not your concern."
A pause. "You won't get away with this."
The Hangman laughed. It was Dave's jovial chuckle, just devoid of its usual humour. "And here I was betting that you were man enough to avoid using that awful cliché." Dave said nothing as the Hangman took another step towards him. God the resemblance was uncanny. "I'm you now Villesent. Even the self-absorbed witch can't tell the difference. I've just endured an hour of backgammon with her. Neither she nor her cat were any the wiser I'm afraid."
"You're the Devil." Dave spat, suddenly gaining courage.
"No," said the Hangman, "But he's on my list." A penetrating stare. Then a tug at the rope. Dave was forced to stand up on the chair. The rope was tied off. "Do you really like backgammon?"
"Yes." Dave said, struggling to get the word out.
"Well I can't stand the game." The Hangman kicked the chair away. Dave didn't struggle long. The Hangman turned from his victim and walked calmly away. "I really hate backgammon." He said to the darkness, "That, and poetry."