His skin hung from his face like old wallpaper, peeling off in visceral stips that slowly oozed down his shoulders and heavily stained shirt. The woolen green gloves he wore were so soaked that they glistened and dripped red onto the sun-cracked dirt. He didn't seem to notice.
His eyes were as red as a roaring fire and glazed over as a corpse's but he did breathe, albeit staggered and irregular. I'd never been more glad for the dark tint on the caravan's windows as I was when I saw him standing right outside, staring at the neighbouring caravan while he seemed to slowly fall apart.
I jumped when they opened their door, completely unaware of the strange and gruesome figure waiting for them just out of sight. They headed for their car without a care in the world as he staggered towards them. It was sheer luck that he was so slow and they were clearly running a little late as their wheels tore gravel right out of there.
He stood where their cr had been for about half an hour I think - long enough to leave a puddle of blood and fallen skin - before wandering away through the dozen or so rows of caravans. When my neighbours got back I quietly ushered them into my home and told them about him and how he waited for them.
They seemed like such a normal pair before this, just your average retired couple living out the rest of their days in a holiday park by the sea. Only they said this was the fifteenth park they'd lived in and the eight country they'd moved to in as many years of being followed by him.
By their son.
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