Sighing, Greta put down her pen and closed her, now dog-eared, notebook, the brown, creased pages just about fitting into the book. A red curl spiraled down in front of her face just covering one of her almond shaped eyes. Heaving herself from the old rocking chair in her room, she wondered round over to the crooked chest of draws and struggled to open it to get out a light dress, since the warm country breeze of the summer was wafting through the wide-open windows. Sliding the light weight material over her head, the navy blue contrasting with her porcelain skin, she checked the modern clock on her wall, fitting in perfectly with the miss-matched furniture in her small room, to see that she had ten minutes until she had to be in the woods. She remembered, finally after many failed attempts that she had to arrive early in the day to set up all the equipment. She grabbed some boots from the corner of the room; their chunky soles caked in thick mud from previous tries at the project. Picking a large black duffel bag, filled up to the brim with tripods, cameras and a pellet gun and walked to the door. Years of saving on a stores assistant's salary let her finally be able to buy the rather expensive equipment needed. The bag dwarfed her body as she tried to carry it out of her house, occasionally knocking her off balance, as it would fall to one side. It was a short drive to the forest; her spluttering mini only had a few more drives in her, Greta thought, tapping the tired dashboard. The radio didn't work, and she couldn't go past third gear, yet she had been with Greta for a while now. The bag rattled in the back as Greta turned onto the unpathed road up to the forest, the sun setting lazily in the background, adding an orange has in the forest, as if it were on fire. The house she grew up in was near the forest, an old brick bungalow, now owned by two pensioners, newly retired. The Hamlet where Greta lived only had a few young people, but most were retired, moving to the sleepy hamlet of Eden's creek. The most exciting thing that tended to happen was when Mrs. Strong, the chronic alcoholic, was thrown out of 'The Wrestlers Arms' Pub. Pulling in to the side of the road, Greta pulled out the key from the ignition and opened the, slightly unstable, door and got out onto the gravel road. She needed to work quickly as the drive had taken longer than she'd thought, the setting sun casting daunting shadows from the skirting trees of the forest. Luckily the summer heat had cooled off, leaving a sharp, cold breeze. Greta had always preferred to work in cold air, keeping her awake and invigorated. Taking out the swelling duffel bag from the back of the decrepit car, sliding out onto her shoulder she set off into the woods, to the barren clearing where her work would begin. The dimming light dappled through the leaves of the tall pine trees, casting an eerie effect on the forest, now buzzing with the wild nightlife of the animals and bird. A young fox screeched into the cold clear night, putting Greta on the edge, but in her mind she knew that she has more things to fear, later on that night. She stumbled across the uneven ground, now beginning to crack with the prolonged draught of the mid-summer. Greta looked up from the path to see the clearing, and then scoped the area, making sure that she still had time, and that it hadn't arrived yet. Smiling, she continued walking, the clearing empty of life. She dropped the duffel bag down onto a moss-coved log; now glad she has paid extra for a padded duffel bag, rather than just a plain canvas one. "Definitely worth the extra £5" she remembered the sales clerk saying, nodding in agreement to her choice. Unpacking its contents, all the while checking that she was hidden in the bushes, a clear view of the set up. Once done she checked the view finder of the video camera, making sure the shot was in focus, them settled down on a near log and waited to see the thing that would appear.