Someone was standing outside. A dark, hooded figure. Looking towards his house. Towards him.
He turned the lights off, to see better. Not to be seen. The shadow just stood there, watching. He shivered, closed the curtains, went downstairs to make sure the door was locked. Made another glance out of the window. The shadow was gone.
He went to bed. He didn’t sleep much that night. Ever since the last book had been published, life had been hard. Hate letters. Phone calls. Racist. Sexist. Painful words. Yes, it had been dark, but he never meant for it to be interpreted in such manner. It was just fiction.
Now someone was watching his house.
The next evening the shadow was back. A figure so dark, he could feel the evil from where he was standing.
He went down stairs, left his son’s baseball bat beside the door. He missed him. He missed them both so much.
He unlocked the door. Opened it.
The shadow was gone. He stuck his head out. Looked to the right. Then to the left. No one.
He locked both locks on the door and went back to his desk. Kept writing.
He heard a sound from the basement. Slowly he walked towards the door. Had he left the basement window open? He never did.
The lights went out.
Laughter. An evil laughter. It came from everywhere. Then another giggle behind him. Lighter. Vicious. He turned slowly around.
Roberta. The girl from his book. The girl he killed. His victim. She screamed. A horrible scream of pain and revenge.
Then she was gone. He was still alive, but the fear was still in his spine. He made a decision.
From now on he would only write about kittens.