It was 22:30 on a Friday night when a loud thud disrupted my peace. Who could that be? And at this hour? I wondered, as I jumped off the couch hastily and walked through the corridor.
As I opened the door, a cool breeze flowed through a silhouette. The cologne—woody and musky—hit my senses, almost hurting my eyes. In front of me stood a young man, his wet blonde hair plastered to his forehead, his ocean-blue eyes enough to hypnotize you.
“Do I know you?” I asked.
“Hello. Sorry to disturb you at this hour, but have you seen my wife? She’s a brunette, about five foot two.”
“Oh... no, I don’t think so.”
As I began closing the door on the young man’s face—kind of rude, one would argue, but it was late and I was alone—his wet hair caught my eye. Almost immediately, I felt a force as he blocked the door with his hand, a little bloody near the cuticles.
“Can I make a phone call? My car broke down. My phone died like an hour ago.”
“Yeah, sure. No problem.”
I’d been living in this small town for years now, so there was no way this guy could be suspicious. As he made the call, I watched him from the corner of my eye. His voice was low, muffled—almost too calm for someone supposedly stranded.
“Yeah, I’m inside... No, she hasn’t seen her,” he murmured into the receiver, his back turned to me. His hand trembled slightly, but not from the cold—something else. Nerves? Adrenaline?
“Do you want some tea or coffee while you wait?” I asked, trying to fill the silence.
He turned his head halfway, not quite meeting my eyes. “Tea’s fine. Thanks.”
I walked into the kitchen, flicking the kettle on. My mind flitted from the odd bruising near his knuckles to the blood on his cuticles. That wasn’t from car trouble.
From behind, I heard him pacing slowly through the hallway, like he was surveying the space. I glanced toward the knife block on the counter and felt a flicker of instinct. I slid the smallest paring knife into my cardigan pocket—just in case. Just nerves, I told myself.
He stepped into the kitchen.
“You live here alone?” he asked casually, his eyes scanning the photos on the fridge.
“Yeah,” I said, regretting the honesty the moment it left my lips.
“My wife... she’s been gone a while,” he said, his voice tightening. “We argued. She said she wanted space. You know how women can be.”
There was something about the way he said it—flat, like he was reciting a line.
I handed him the mug. His fingers brushed mine. Ice cold.
“Thanks,” he muttered. Then, abruptly, he set the mug down on the counter without taking a sip.
“Can I use your bathroom?”
“Sure. Just down the hall, to the right.”
He disappeared down the hallway. I waited. The sound of the bathroom door clicking shut.
I quietly stepped into the living room and checked the lock on the front door. Still unlocked. I twisted it shut.
Then I glanced at my phone on the coffee table. No signal. Great.
Something nudged at me, like a whisper in the dark: Check the call log.
I tiptoed to the kitchen and picked up the landline he used. No outgoing calls. None at all.
I didn’t even hear him come up behind me.
“Looking for something?”
His voice was soft now. Too soft. And close.
I turned slowly, heart in my throat. He was standing inches from me, water still dripping from his hair, hands clasped behind his back.
“You didn’t call anyone,” I said.
He smiled, and it chilled me to the bone.
“You’re right,” he said. “I didn’t.”
He pulled his hands forward. One of them was holding something small. A photograph. My photograph—taken from the hallway.
“I’ve been watching you for weeks,” he whispered. “She looked a lot like you, my wife. But you’re quieter. Alone. Easier.”
I stumbled back, heart slamming against my ribs. My hand instinctively slipped into my pocket, fingers curling around the cold metal of the paring knife.
He stepped closer.
“I’ll give you a head start,” he said, tilting his head, smiling that same lifeless smile. “It’s more fun that way.”
For a second, we just stared at each other. Neither of us moved. My breath caught in my throat. The house felt suddenly too small—its walls pressing in, the silence deafening.
Then I ran.
I bolted down the hallway, feet thudding on the wooden floor, past the closed bathroom door, past the flickering lamp in the corner. Behind me, I heard footsteps—slow, deliberate at first. He wanted me to run. He wanted this to last.
I reached the back door and grabbed the bolt. It stuck. My hands were slick with sweat. I yanked harder.
Click.
I threw the door open, letting in the cold night air. But just as I stepped out, something grabbed my wrist and yanked me back—hard.
I slammed into the wall, my shoulder jolting with pain. He was there, grinning, breath calm. Too calm.
“I thought you’d be faster,” he said.
I lashed out.
The knife in my hand found his arm. He gasped—just a breath—but it was enough. I ducked, slipped under him, and ran again—this time toward the stairs, toward my bedroom. The only room with a lock. The only room with something stronger.
I slammed the door behind me and turned the key just as he hit it.
Bang.
The door shook on its hinges.
Bang.
“Open the door,” he called. No more polite stranger.
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