Disappearance II

Upon entering my home I noticed there were a few things amiss. For one, there was a noticeable smell in the air. It was the smell of burning, but not the sweet smell of burning wood, but the terrible smell of burning foliage and plastics. I could not pin it down, but I had smelt something like it before. What mattered most however was why this smell was coming from inside my home.

​I had entered my home quietly enough, the dark covered me from sight, but I still felt vulnerable. As if there was a huge target painted on my chest and someone stood somewhere in the house with a gun read to fire the first shot. Still, this was no time for fear and I pushed forward into my home, making sure to not step loudly or turn on the lights. If there was indeed someone in the house I would be prepared to face him or her. In the end I walked throughout the house and there was nobody to be found. I called the police in a hushed call and collected a weapon in hand.
Waiting is the worst cause of fear. Allowing yourself to wait means accepting something is wrong and in the time you have your mind begins creating worse scenarios than is likely. I felt it though, the grip of death closing around me as if the killer was in my home, hiding in the smallest impossible space behind me with a knife less than an inch from my vulnerable neck.
Luckily, my death was not on that very night and the police did arrive soon after my call for help. Once they arrived we proceeded through the house and began searching every room one-by-one. There is no doubt it my mind that somebody had broken into my house and we received the first and only sign of it in my bedroom.
Upon entering the room I saw a symbol had been carved on the wall above the head of my bed. It was four lines and the meaning behind it was clear. There were three deaths in the village and mine was to be the fourth. It was a chilling sight, but now the killer had made themselves very vocal in the community. What is more, the killer showed that my article had actually worked on them. I explained to the police that the one who wrote the article about the killer was me and they immediately understood the threat the killer had placed on me.
Considering the killer had poisoned his victims the police immediately seized any consumables in my household and cut the water. Everything would be checked for poison, but in the end I would be better off buying a new batch of food. It was a frustrating, but necessary process. I went with the police to the station to help write a report while one of the officers stayed behind to watch the house.
The night never seemed to end and I doubted I would be able to receive any sleep. Still, I was asked to stay with somebody I knew, but I preferred the comfort of my own bed. Even if I would sit in my bed uncomfortably watching the door and window at least I was in my own home.
That was exactly what I did, but instead I paced in my bedroom, flashing a look at the carved tally on the wall and at the police officer that sat in his car trying not to fall asleep outside my window. Eventually the light of day dawned and I certainly didn’t feel too ready to tackle the day. I grabbed a purse of my moneys and decided to do some security shopping. I bought locks and bars very every little thing inside my home and decided to spend the day installing every one.
The locks were strong and of great quality, but I knew this behaviour didn’t paint a good picture of me in the killer’s eyes if they were watching. So, in my free time, I once more took up the typewriter and began writing a column around the killer. What I wrote was a lot more reserved, but in the end, still insulting towards my would-be assassin. It was too late today for the piece to reach the newspaper, but I took it out all the same and delivered it to the printers while I also bought my food.
Upon returning home I saw the priest standing outside his church staring out at me. There was deep concern in his eyes and decided to ask him why. He only shook his head, telling me he saw the look on my face as I entered the printers. He told me not to stoke a fire too high as it may consume me, but I retorted that I would not be the one consumed, but the one could not control their own fire. Indeed, my logic was sound and we parted on a forced farewell.
Once I was hope I did my rounds through the house, locking the doors and windows and making sure everything was secure. Once that was done I proceeded to my kitchen where I began cooking to my hearts relief. I ate a meal that wasn’t all too splendid, but it certainly was filling. I sighed, leaning back once more in my chair and eyeing the rest of my groceries. There was something truly sinister about a man willing to spoil good food in order to kill someone, but that was no longer my problem. What did concern me was the wine I had purchased. It was an older bottle, that was for sure, but what bother me was the top of it.
The top of the wine bottle seemed fresh, almost as if the wax was burnt recently. I took the bottle in my hands and ran my thumb across the top gently. Upon lifting my thumb I saw some of the wax had shifted with ease and my thumb was stained with colouring. The bottle had been tampered with and with that in mind my fear became truly real. I lifted the phone to call the police once more, but to my dismay the line was cut and I felt the room turn silent as I heard a creak from the other side of the house. The footsteps of Death itself approached me.