Chapter Text
You could recognize that feeling anywhere, better than anybody else could; you were being followed.
The human mind is a wonderfully crafted piece, easily able to pinpoint in its vast subconscious things one might not be aware of at first. You were all too familiar with the notion that one didn’t necessarily need to be met with the source, as the brain instinctively and faultlessly could always tell if prying eyes were silently scrutinizing from afar.
Said cryptic feeling had been persisting for what you were sure was almost a week by now. Tonight however, it seemed to be the strongest it had been so far. Immediately after stepping foot out of your workplace and into the crisp October breeze outside, your nerves felt as if lit aflame by an undivulged igniter. You had never bothered with formalities like owning your own car or even possessing a driver’s license, instead preferring to take the path of the wanderer each time you needed to bounce between locations.
Even with the countless passerby on the sidewalk, the seemingly unending streets of Haddonfield simply alive with the sound of distant, unclear chatter alongside joyously puerile squeals, you felt so utterly dejected. Even as various blurry faces carelessly walked by you, some of them blissfully linking arms, the lingering sensation of being the only soul truly present there refused to leave the puzzling confines of your eternally cluttered mind.
The rapidly perishing golden leaves of stripped trees all around serenely glide through the ever so present late evening flurry of air as you take a sharp left in order to enter the street where your humble place of residence meekly stood, a picture perfect sight of mid autumn despondency.
You’ve always found it funny just how merry people got as this particular season rolled by; a season notoriously known for the way nature’s vital flame gets put out, everything shrivels and slowly yet surely begins dying until nothing but skeletal-like remains are solely left standing; what was once a most colourful ensemble of rosey-green prosperity and warmth now cruelly turned within a twisted change of fate into dried sticks and crunchy carcasses. Sometimes, you could swear people got more excited about Halloween than goddamn Christmas.
That dreadful sensation of holes drilling in the back of your head valiantly persists, even as you undo the lock with heightened precision due to remarkably grated nerves, entering your house with much more fervour than you’re used to. The relatively old oak door of your house’s entrance creaks back into place, and you insist on trying it one, two times just to give yourself the mental security that no imagined or unimagined boogymen could enter.
Normally, any woman living by herself who was suspecting she was being watched would have called the police within a heartbeat. But you weren’t just any woman.
To say your distrust in law enforcement was unmatched by any normal standards would be an understatement. Based on past subjective experiences and infinite amounts of stories and testimonies, you were fully convinced that even if you were to be attacked and you called them, they’d let you bleed out like a deer in the forest. What good would it do to pick up the phone right now and tell them something that they’d most likely pin down as a mere fabrication of a fantastically sleep deprived and possibly lonesome mind?
You’ve heard the dread-inducing stories of crime and anguish surrounding this otherwise unassuming town. Stories of eternally looming, unseen perpetrators with an almost mythical element to them, the kind a mother would tell to her mischievous offsprings to scare them back into obedience. The way the police handled it made you all the more opposed to the idea of having them lending you their aid.
Truth be told, you have always been the skeptical type. You wouldn’t deny the existence of creeps and psychos, but you were simultaneously not inclined by any means to believe all of the details long time residents gave out which seemed exaggerated, be it due to faulty memories or purposeful deceit.
You could take care of yourself just fine. All of your life, you have been the one to pull your own being out of peril and back up on your feet, regardless of whether others were also in the picture or not. You knew yourself better than anybody who tried prying away the infinitely running layers, and as far as you were concerned, it should much rather remain like that.
With a careless kick to the fridge door, you’re done with unloading tonight’s groceries. Sighing deeply, you begin making your way to the living room next, kicking off your work heels in the process and tossing them somewhere off to the side, most likely landing by the near claustrophobic hallway leading to the front door.
This house specifically was nothing special you reckon, with the tasteless way in which some of the piping system wasn’t even entirely covered to show the tiniest amounts of decency. You had often obsessed over said detail, irked to no end each time you passed through the seemingly endless corridor which housed your bedroom at the very end and saw the various pipes and wires, bared to the whole world like some sort of unfinished, decrepit art project put together by an equally as sick mind.
It was, however, more than decently large, despite only having one story, with most of the rooms satisfyingly spacious, and upon remembering the price on this thing, it almost caused your incessant complaints to die out. Almost.
You really tried making it seem like home. From hanging paintings and posters up on the crack littered walls to laying out carefully selected arrays of potted natural plants of all sizes and shapes on the peeling wood of the front porch, you could say you’ve shown the most interest in a living space you physically could. Everything was squeaky clean at all times, you couldn’t stand even a slight speck of grime on any visible surface. The fact that this house was most likely past its prime you assumed, as the previous owner really ran around certain details, only made you wanna counter said fact even more by obsessively scraping and rubbing at it with each chance you got.
On your worst days, you couldn’t stand being inside it. Oftentimes during late nights, creaks and wooden wails would resonate from within the walls, cruelly hacking through the otherwise fatal silence, seemingly hellbent on circling and suffocating you until you couldn’t pinpoint the source anymore. The street you lived on had one of the poorest lighting jobs you’ve ever seen, and the lamplight just shy of your house outside would flicker almost every night unmistakably.
Sometimes when you went to the bathroom after waking up at hours you vehemently refused to check, you swore you could see large, inhumane shadows stepping just out of sight when you turned your back so you could flick the lights on. That split second in which you waited for everything to become bright and safe was the most nerve-wracking. Indeed, living by yourself in this house really made you reminisce about hazy, distant times from a long forgotten youth when you’d unmistakably break into a full sprint so you could reach your bed as fast as humanly possible the minute darkness shrouded your surroundings.
The horrible mundanity of routine was the most suited savior in times like these, as your experience told. And so you prevailed, finishing up the preparations for when you’d have to leave for work again tomorrow, setting out your carefully put together lunchbox and ironing your work uniform, stubbornly refusing to believe your alert senses once they tried warning you of a potentially unidentified shape in the unlit distance shown by your kitchen window. You simply refused to give into the mass paranoia that was shoved down your throat almost on a daily in this place, specifically during this season, no matter how sure you were that there might as well, indeed, be something out there that had been trying to make its presence known over the span of this week. If somebody wanted to break in and harm you they would’ve already done so by now, is the forced mantra your rationality chanted to you.
Wrapping the evening up, you slowly pushed the door to the bathroom open, letting it fall against the cream-colored tiling with a dull thud. You concluded that the finest ending to a long day would be a well deserved bathing, and it was, indeed, exactly what you were planning on doing as you turned your head to the left then to the right while awkwardly standing in the dimly lit hallway, checking one last time before shutting the door behind you and locking it, despite being all too aware that you were the sole resident.
Letting your clean change of clothes fall next to the pristine clawfoot tub, you flick the tap to the left, letting the pleasantly hot water fill up slowly, the serene sound of water gingerly splashing around effectively taking your mind off other matters for a single minute.
As you stood there examining your tired visage in the slightly fogged up mirror, you suddenly caught a glimpse of the rather uninspired window in this room, your nose turning. Consequently, you remembered one of the most pressing gripes you’ve had with the layout of this house from the moment it was trying to be sold to you; why would they ever place a dubiously sized window in the bathroom right in front of the tub, of all places?
You’ve seen windows in bathrooms before, but certainly not of this size and definitely not placed like this. Usually, they’d be somewhere off to the side, very high up, almost kissing the ceiling. But not yours. This must have been somebody’s concerningly voyeuristic fantasy from the past, and now you had to suffer because of it.
For your own peace of mind, you shut the long covers you’ve specifically gotten for this reason tightly before letting your robe drop to the floor alongside your panties. Closing the tap, you let your aching body submerge itself up to the neck, the hugging hotness of the water enveloping your senses. Slowly, you rub the floral-scented shower oil into your arms and legs, closing your eyes and letting yourself go, desperately trying to shut off your despicable mind for once, your head tipped against the cool edge.
As the minutes rolled by and the build up of steam caused you lightheadness, you soon realized that maybe, just maybe, what you needed was to relieve some stress and you’d feel much better. After all, one of the perks of living alone was that you wouldn’t have to watch out for possible intrusions, right?
The descent of your hand is hesitant, yet burning with anticipation. You let two nimble fingers slowly press against the tiny, engorged nub between your legs, moving in slow, circular patterns. This was it, you thought. You were entirely right, all you needed was a good lay. Alas, this would have to suffice for the time being.
Your resilience grows after a few minutes, adding two fingers inside which thrusted in tandem with the now adamant rubbing of your other hand. Despite the nagging feeling at the back of your head that has been refusing to let off all of this week, you finally allow yourself a semblance of serenity as you part your lips slowly to let out a shaky moan.
You weren’t even sure who or what your mind was conveying explicit images of whilst in the self-induced, debaucherous act, faceless beings and unnamed, towering figures unsteadily flashing by as your hands picked up the pace. All that mattered was reaching that sought after split second of pure ecstasy in which your logical thoughts shut off altogether. A third finger gets added now, pushing against your deepest spots, cursing and struggling your small portions as the desire for something bigger and much thicker overtook.
Your labored breaths bounce off the slick walls with a haunting echo, eyes hazy and unfocused and muscles flexing. The slight rocking motion of the water as you shifted and trembled inside it added a layer of hotness over your dripping sex, causing you to be one step closer to the imminent moment of ultimate unraveling.
Cracking your eyelids open slightly, a good portion of the water around you falls to the floor with an unceremonious splatter as you happen to catch an unnatural glimpse of white through the tiny opening between the curtains, your previously intimate moment condemned to obscurity.
Your bathroom was facing the trees in the backyard, and you knew your property better than anybody else. There was absolutely no light out there, not even a tiny lantern you might have misplaced that could have emitted that grisly shade, so utterly out of place amidst the suffocating gripes of darkness and shadows and shapes that it stuck out like a sore thumb. When you dared glance back at the opening, it was gone.
Forgetting about your bath and routine, you nearly slip and crack your head open as you jump out of the tub with newfound conviction, not even bothering to pull the drain plug as you haphazardly throw your robe over your bare, shaking, wet body. If you had tried making up rational explanations on the basis that you had no concrete evidence as to why you’ve been feeling like there was something lurking around these days, everything got brutally thrown out the window now. No hand lantern could have stood at that height anyway. You have seen it clearly enough to switch up your initial beliefs.
You throw your frame into the hallway, rushing to the small storage closet nestled within the opposite wall, beginning to frantically rummage through what few tools you had lying around until eventually settling over a particularly large hammer which looked like it could inflict at least a good concussion to even the most threatening of individuals.
You had to play this smart, maintain yourself as silent as possible despite the building anxiety and the borderline mind-numbing epinephrine rush angrily flowing throughout your entire form. Clutching the thick handle in a milky-knuckled grip, you slowly advance through the hallway, heading into the direction of the living room as you made sure to treat the brash, surrounding shadows as your most loyal friend.
Your blood freezes and your ears painfully ring the instant you hear the slight, tentative creak of a window being opened, probably the one in your kitchen if you were to go by the distance of the sound. Did you happen to forget to fully shut it tonight? Did you really make such a feeble mistake? You, who prided yourself with your uncanny ability to foresee the future and prepare accordingly?
None of it mattered anymore. Right now, you directed your full attention towards what was around and in front of you. You listened intently akin to a cornered rabbit, weapon suffocated against your pounding ribcage, not daring to take any more steps.
That is when you see it; the harsh outline of what you can only assume is a spectacularly large man’s arm loitering around your kitchen area. You hold your breath when you catch a flickering glimpse of the shockingly large cutting knife held in his other hand as he turns around, the grip on its poor black handle rivaling your own.
You make yourself smaller into the varying shapes of black and gray, tucking yourself inwards, obscured entirely just shy of his field of vision when he comes to stand in the doorway of your kitchen, head threatening to touch the top of it. His oppressively looming presence looks like something straight out of a horror movie whilst simply standing there, casting a large, dark mass with his towering figure over the floor of your living room as you wonder how was it humanly possible for a man that huge to be fitting through the doorway.
When he steps closer, head slowly, almost robotically turning to both sides so he could assess his surroundings, you have to snuff out the gasp which threatens to escape you when you gaze upon the disturbingly emotionless extra layer fully shrouding his identity from any prying eyes, giving off the impression that he was a pale, walking corpse, suddenly recalling and understanding who, or rather, what exactly you were dealing with.
He takes a step closer, grisly, grimed faux visage tilting almost unnoticeably as he scans the nooks and crevices of your living room with alarming amounts of patience and resilience. He never makes any sudden movements, doesn’t angrily flip over furniture to look for a potential victim. He simply stands there in total, mortifying silence, watching.
You knew you had to take all the risks in the world to surprise this brute, otherwise you would have zero chances of making it out alive, if you were to judge based on the sheer size of his body, the way his grip seemingly dwarfed even that particularly large kitchen knife, looking like it will snap in half at any second inside his big, stained palm.
Like a heat seeking missile, his slow, deliberate steps now lead him towards the hallway. Towards your direction. You glue yourself to the wall, soundlessly sliding away from him into the growing darkness caused by his form blocking out any hope of light from the living room as he torturously steps into the corridor. After a while you can’t even properly make anything out anymore; only hear the rhythmic breathing accentuated tenfold by that dreadful mask. Everything around you is pitch black.
It is then that the most violent strike of silver you’ve ever seen barely misses your right arm, instead cutting through thin air with a piercing woosh noise, expertly breaking off the darkness surrounding you with its deadly blade. You’re way too alert to even scream, jumping out of your skin and to the side while your assailant regains his footing and whips the huge mass of his body into your direction. For a second which feels like agonizing eternity, you just stare each other down, your wide, panicked eyes narrowing in the slightest when he crooks his head to the right. Intrigue.
Without warning, he lurches forward, attempting to grab you but you mimic his quickness and slide into the opposite direction again at speeds you never knew you were capable of. Your foot lands a sharp strike to his side which effectively sends the mountain of a being wobbling to the left wall, but as you try to run past him you feel the tightest, most breath-cutting grip around your free hand, ripping out a shriek from deep within your throat.
The frail bones inside your wrist grind together like saws, and you know this might just be your last warning before your light gets put out.
You quickly turn the right part of your body a full one eighty, having only a split second to observe that he was in the process of raising blinding steel above your head. As if possessed, you then whip the heavy hammer securely perched inside your right hand in an adrenaline-imbedded manner, your brain barely registering the searing pain going off inside your left hand anymore.
Caught within your survival-fueled daze, it took you way too long to commit to memory the sickening crunch as the blunt object had successfully collided with his head. He then toppled over, crashing into the wall next to him like a wrecking ball, the knife balancing against his twitching fingers insecurely.
You act on autopilot again, lunging towards the nearby storage closet, your hands blindly grabbing at the dark corner where you knew for sure resided a long, rusted over chain. Turning around, you strike him a second time with the hammer while he stumbles to get up to his full height, now square over his right cheek.
Swallowing dryly, your unsteady legs carry you behind him as you jump over his halfly-crouched body. You tug on his large arms which felt like carrying two tree trunks with all of your might, bringing them together behind his back as you hurriedly tie the hastily put together makeshift restraints around his thick wrists.
You wrestle with his fingers hard enough to cause him to finally drop the knife, which then leads to you hurriedly wrapping the other end of the chain to the nearest and thickest metallic pipe that you could find in the midst of your desperate search.
Stumbling back and tripping, you grab both weapons off the floor, hard enough that your chewed over nails scrape against the hardwood floor, and finally put some distance between you two, falling backwards on the soft carpet in your living room. Your chest heaves, heart maddeningly begging to be freed against the bony confines of your sternum as you prop your body up on your hands, wincing slightly as your brain finally properly registers the dull ache going off inside your left wrist whenever you try moving it.
You sit there, petrified, ready to pounce a second time if he so much as moves, but nothing comes. For a while, you think he had passed out, or perhaps that you’ve killed him, but the rough contour of his hunched over form stirring in the slightest amidst the cramped confines of the corridor has you second guessing. He was so big he was inadvertedly acting as a fleshy barrier, even in his current, crouched over state.
You rise from your previously sitting position cautiously, picking the hammer back up in the process.
Your glazed over orbs are peeled on his silhouette, weapon behind you, ready to fall down again if necessary. Any semblance of a doubt had been erased from your mind after this encounter.