I first saw him when I was seven, this long and fluttering shape half-lit by the dim orange streetlight in the neighbour's garden. I thought it was a flag at first until he lifted his head, looked around and spotted me. He smiled, at least I thought he was smiling at the time.
I remember watching him uncurl his limbs from the old flagpole and scuttle across the street, climb up the side of our house and peer into my bedroom window. I was thrilled, thinking I had a new secret best friend when any rational adult or child would have seen a smile that stretched across an otherwise featureless face, jagged teeth stained a worryingly rusty brown.
Back then I thought he was wearing a mask, in hindsight it was the neighbour's son's skin pulled taut over its own face and ripping in places from the strain. I reckon that's why he never killed me - I was far too small to be worn. Perhaps I was just an interesting little thing that kept it occupied between killings.
He only came to mind when I saw him outside my current neighbour's house, peering into their children's bedroom window just like he'd done for me all those years ago. Now I think I should be afraid, now I'm much bigger than him but something about his lithe body screamed "coiled, dangerous and ready to strike you down".
I haven't gone out near dark for weeks now, just in case I'm next in line to be worn.
I know my skin will fit him nicely.
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