Timmy blinked. As the retinal burn faded, he tried to figure out what the light could've been. A simple "old man" ornament wouldn't have glinted so brilliantly, and he was sure Mr. Bumbry wouldn't have kept jewellery on display... As the boy thought about it more and more, he became more and more curious. He pushed himself up from off the floor and crouched carefully. He then shuffled over to the window to the side of the door. He paused for a moment. Should he really be creeping round? Peering into windows and nosing around the place? Yes he should, he decided... He'd likely lost his job anyway because of the old man; what else could he do to him?
He held onto the window's sill with the tips of his fingers and slowly raised his head. Eventually he managed to peer over the flaking paint and into the cottage. His eyes flitted from side to side, hoping to catch sight of that brilliant light once more. He noticed it was dark in there. Very dark. There were no lights on the curtains were all but closed, leaving a light shimmering gold filtering through the material. He thought himself lucky the single curtain on this window were open. He imagined the old man sitting in a rocking chair, smoking a pipe, in the dark, with a telephoto lens watching people go about their every day lives; noting down any dirt he happened across. Was that how Mr. Bumbry had so many connections? Perhaps as soon as you entered the view of the window, you were caught in his trap. Never able to get free... He wondered what the old man might have on him. His thoughts were interrupted by a wizened old hand grabbing him by the scruff of the neck.
"Ah!" he cried, kicking and writhing; reaching out for freedom but failing. He was dragged back across the grass, blades float through the air, ripped by Timmy's muddy school shoes. Adrenaline slowed down time. He could feel his collar tightening in the old man's grip; feel his heart beating hard and fast in his chest; feeling his face redden and tears begin to form at the corner of his eyes. And then he felt a breeze against the tiny hairs across his neck. The Mr. Bumbry threw the boy into the cottage and slammed the door, locking him in. Alone. In the dark.