Page 3 of The Killer You Know

The distinct sound of footfalls emanates from the right of the kitchen as they head this way and my heart gives a few unnatural thumps.

It’s probably just Ellen. She knows where the hide-a-key is, although I never lock that door during the day so she wouldn’t need it. I’m back and forth in the garden all afternoon trying to keep my vegetables alive even though I do get more likes and comments while they’re dying. Lucky for me because everything is dying out there.

“Ellen?” I call out as the footsteps creep this way. They’re soft as if she doesn’t really want to make a scene.

She’s been known to drop by at will, and lately it seems she wills it a lot. She’s been lonely since my father-in-law left her for younger pastures a few years back. Let’s hope that infidelity isn’t passed down on the father’s side or I might be moved to kill quite literally.

My mind flits to my past. I haven’t always been an angel myself.

“Ellen, is that you?” The silence that follows my call is heavy, loaded with my anticipation. My heart starts to race, my adrenaline kicks in, but I can’t seem to stop my feet from moving in that direction.

The soft footfalls cease, and yet the stillness of the house that was once comforting now feels oppressive and suffocating. There’s not a sound. Nothing but the sound of my own heartbeat, pounding in my ears like a drum.

I must have imagined it all.

I’m about to turn around when I catch a glimpse of movement, and just like that, a figure clad in black with a ski mask obscuring their face and dark gloves covering their hands steps in front of me.

A wild panic electrifies me from the inside out, and yet I freeze solid. Not even a scream comes from my throat.

This isn’t Ellen.

This isn’t Daniel.

This is everyone’s worst nightmare, materialized in broad daylight.

“Who are you?” I pant out the words as I start to back up.

But they don’t answer. Instead, they head my way and I gasp and scream as I turn to run and dart through the house in a desperate bid for safety.

I need to get to the front door.

I need to get out.

Every second feels like a lifetime.

A primal terror grips me as I weave through the living room, knocking down a lamp in haste. And just as I’m about to hit the foyer, I’m grabbed by the hair and thrown to the ground.

I flop onto my back just in time to see a knife plunging at me.

“No,” I scream, deflecting the blade with my hands. “I’m sorry,” I shout, apologizing for who knows what. But I know the list of my grievances is long.

The dark figure looms over me, hoisting that blade above me once again like a threat.

That public persona I’ve built up, the one million adoring fans, the book deal, the spotlight I’ve both loved and loathed—it all means nothing now.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, this time holding my hands high up, clasped and pleading. My entire existence has whittled itself down to this very moment, to this imminent threat, and I will say anything in order to survive. “Take whatever you want. Do whatever you want. Just please let me live.”

Blood trickles onto my face from my fingers. I haven’t even inspected my new wounds yet.

A dull laugh comes from them just as the knife comes down and that blade spikes hard into my chest.

They pluck it out just as quickly as they plunged it, and I can’t breathe through the wild, white-hot pain.

They take the blade and scratch it along my forehead just as the world fades to darkness.

I just wanted to tell a story, and now mine has reached its final chapter.

Murdered in cold blood.

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