I know it's been awhile since the last time I wrote here, but it's been a busy weekend. As watchman of the woods, the change of color and the fall of the leaves make this season the most hectic time of the year. They just won't stay out, these filthy, dirty humans. They are no good, mummy used to say when she was still alive. And she still says that. Lovely mummy. How I miss her. Miss seeing her face. Her voice I can still hear. They are no good. No, they are not.

If only they would leave all of this alone. They have to understand that this is my place. No trespassers. No trespassers. No trespassers are allowed in here. They are no good. They are bad, people. When mummy says someone is no good, they are bad. And bad people cannot be here.

But they still come. They still come even though they know. People disappear. I make them disappear. Me and mummy try to keep these woods clean. It is our job. It is the job mummy gave me and I am a responsible boy. A responsible man.

These people are no good. They came first to the old cabins, long ago, and did filthy things. The smoke and the noise and the drinking and the nakedness. The filthy unclean nakedness. And the stench of sweat and bodies on top of eachother.

The disapperance of those people stopped nothing. New came the following year. As if they could not remember. They disappeared too. More people after that. I began leaving what I could spare. It changed nothing.

Five years ago I burned the cabins down, with everyone still inside, naked and screaming. Mummy whispered in my ear that it was the right thing to do. She had gone to heaven the year before but came back to me as an angel. They are not good. Fire is what they deserve.

The fire stopped some but not everyone. They came with tents instead. But it made everything easier. All my tools eat through the fabric easier than they eat through dirty, naked, unclean skin. And how it burns. It needs a little help to get started but to hear the flames melt the fabric and make a cocoon smelling of burnt flesh is better. The more they suffer, the better it is.

This weekend another group arrived. Filthy women. Dirty men. Mummy saw that right away, They were no good. They had tents. They had bottles. I could hear the bottles in their bags long before I could see them. The men always the same. Trying to impress the women. The women always the same. Pretending to be impressed by the men.

It didn't take long until they were doing what they always do. And as always, they had no idea we were watching, me and mummy. They never watch the leaves change color. They are only interested in eachother. Why do they have to come here to be that? Why do they have to come to my place?

This time I used the hammer and the axe I keep in my toolshed. I don't even have to open the tent. I used to want to see their faces. Not any more. A few years ago they all started to look the same. I had seen it before. Several times. So many ways to kill them, so few faces to make as you die.

Once the handles on my tools were too wet and hard to grip, I found use for their bottles. Thinking back on it, it makes me laugh that they actually packed their own death just hours earlier and were not even aware of it. Stupid. Ugly. Dirty. Filthy.

I left a message. I always do that these days. But I don't expect them to listen. They read it. But they never ever listen. We just want to be left alone. We live here. This is our home. I have lived here with my mummy ever since I had my accident. And they are no good. They are no good. They are no good. They are no good. They are no good, mummy. Just like you have always said.