Recluse (standard:horror, 1926 words)
Author: Lev821	Added: Dec 01 2009	Views/Reads: 3293/2023	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Why is a journalist fearful of interviewing a famous recluse?

I don't know why I am apprehensive, I must have interviewed hundreds of
people, but this person for some reason causes fear to flow through me. 
I am Duncan Clifford, 47, a journalist working for a local free 
newspaper, and I am to interview Edward Mills, a famous recluse. 

I've never understood that, why celebrities shun the limelight. You'd
think most people would crave it, yet some simply become famous without 
asking, whether they are the son and daughter of somebody who is 
already known, or have some unique talent that gets them noticed. I 
have noticed these days, however, that talent and being famous do not 
necessarily go together. Some people simply get famous without having a 
single ounce of talent. That's just the way it works, and like Edward 
to whom fame called, they answered, and for a while, Edward was known 
as a scientist who took drastic measures and experimented on all kinds 
of biological matter. He cloned a horse that lived for a week, could 
manipulate a pregnant woman up to a month after conception into giving 
her a boy or girl, and even certain characteristics. He was most famous 
for his controversial book: ‘The future is here', where he gave sound, 
logical arguments for his views on atomic energy and genetically 
modified farm animals, and would go onto television to talk about and 
defend them. Yet, as the news rolls on, and what was once breaking news 
was forgotten when the latest z-list celebrity was seen canoodling with 
somebody they shouldn't, and a manager is sacked for mediocre results. 

The last thing, as far as I know that Edward did as celebrity, was a
radio interview in Southend-on-sea for the local area, and that was it. 
Forgotten in the news, his book relegated to one copy in retailers and 
charity shops. Yet, unlike other famous people who always crave 
attention, and fame, who badger their agent to get them work, no matter 
what, Edward could have carried on being a name, being known, but he 
chose to vanish, to retire to a Cornish bungalow 8 miles from the 
nearest town, overlooking the Bristol channel. He didn't give 
interviews anymore, or appear in any form in any media. He was a 
recluse, who shut the door on fame, and retired away to live on his 
own, out in the countryside, and for the past four years, it was how he 
had been living. 

Why do that, though? Why shun what most people crave? I know a lot of
famous people complain about being a celebrity, about not having much 
privacy, about greedy producers and agents, yet still we see their 
grinning faces on the television and in glossy magazines. They must all 
have their reasons. With a lot of people craving the celebrity 
lifestyle, some probably had a taste of it, decided it wasn't for them, 
then ran away. It's a fickle business is fame. One minute you're loved, 
then you are loathed, then you are loved again, then disrespected, then 
tolerated, then loved again, and so on until relegated to the history 
books. Edward's place there is assured, but why has he just stopped? I 
wonder. My boss has given me this assignment, so I will need something 
to show for it, even if he tells me get off his land and slams the 
door, I suppose I will have to write about that. 

As I walk up the curving path, I see through the trees to my right, the
calm sea, and wonder if I could just stop awhile to absorb the 
environment. No, I'd best continue. The path continued to wind and 
slope for around two miles, and I realise that it would have been 
simpler to build it in a straight line. Why have it bend and curve? 
I'll never know, anyway, over to my right I see on a flat rough patch 
of grass, near a cliff edge, a set of circular ancient monoliths, like 
a miniature Stonehenge, with what looked to be an alter in the middle. 
I stop and stare for a while, wondering who built it and why. A place 
to read the stars to answer the difficult questions that could not be 
answered in those times because science had not yet revealed them? Or a 
place to worship deities whom they believed were looking down on them, 
listening and watching. He smiled a humourless smile. Nothing much 
changes, he thought, and continued towards Edward's home. After another 
mile it appeared over the edge of an ascending path. A lonely looking 
place with tall trees behind it. Around seventy metres before its front 
door, and around ten from the cliff edge, was a well. I crossed to it 
and look down. It obviously hasn't been used in a long time. I then 
slowly approach the front of the bungalow, and find that the front door 
is ajar. I hesitate before knocking, then wait, stepping back 
subconsciously and looking at the floor like a schoolboy asking for his 
ball back from the back-yard. There was, however, no answer. 

He had to be around somewhere, as even out here, I knew it would not be


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