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The scent of blood lingered in her nose.
CHAPTER TEN
The moon's pale light cast eerie shadows on the ground as the predator moved silently through the night, his breath shallow and controlled. He could feel the familiar itch pulsing within him. His thoughts raced with chaotic fervor, yet his movements remained precise and calculated, contradicting his unstable nature.
As he approached the house, he felt a surge of adrenaline course through his veins – an intoxicating mix of fear and excitement. The darkness seemed almost alive, wrapping itself around him like a shroud, concealing his presence from the world. He studied the dwelling before him, taking in every detail: the weathered wooden facade, the overgrown vegetation, the single light flickering in an upstairs window.
"P-perfect," he whispered to himself, smirking behind the darkness. His voice shuddered and shook, contrasting his confident gait.
He crept closer, each step careful and deliberate, his eyes scanning the surrounding area for any signs of movement. His fingers twitched in anticipation, eager to carry out their task. Though the hour was late, he knew that anything could give him away – the snap of a twig beneath his feet, the rustle of leaves as he brushed past them, a stray beam of moonlight reflecting off his blade.
"Patience," he reminded himself, his voice barely more than a faint exhale.
His heart pounded in his chest, a frenzied rhythm that threatened to betray his calm exterior.
As he neared the house, the darkness seemed to cling to him even tighter, as if urging him to press forward. He paused for a moment, listening intently for any sounds within – laughter, footsteps, the creak of floorboards. But all was silent, save for the gentle hum of insects in the night air.
As the predator's eyes adjusted to the darkness, he noticed the paint markings on the side of the house. They glowed faintly under the moonlight, a cryptic message that only he could decipher. He traced a finger over the markings, feeling a shiver of recognition run down his spine.
The wind picked up, rustling through the leaves, and he jerked his hand away from the markings, suddenly aware of his vulnerability. Casting a cautious glance around the perimeter, he ensured that no prying eyes were watching his movements.
He moved stealthily towards the back door, his steps light and measured. As he reached for the doorknob, he paused for a moment, his mind wandering back to the paint markings and their significance.
With a final, determined breath, he turned the doorknob. Locked. No matter--he'd prepared for such eventualities.
He retrieved a set of lockpicks from his pocket and began to work on the lock. It was an old lock, and it gave way after a few seconds of fiddling. The predator pushed the door open, wincing at the squeak it made. He paused, listening for any signs of movement within the house. But all was silent.
He stepped inside, closing the door behind him. The darkness within was absolute, and for a moment, he was disoriented. He let his eyes adjust to the darkness, and soon, he was able to make out his surroundings. The scent of mildew and decay filled his nostrils, making him wrinkle his nose.
The floorboards creaked softly beneath him as he made his way through the darkened house, each step calculated and deliberate. The killer's anticipation swelled within him, pulsing like a living thing, driving him forward with an electric thrill. He could almost taste the fear that would soon fill these walls, the very air tingling with the promise of what was to come.
As his eyes adjusted to the dim interior, he began to make out the faint shapes of furniture scattered throughout the room. His fingers grazed over the back of a worn leather chair, its surface cold and slick to the touch. He smiled, imagining his target sinking into its welcoming embrace, unaware of the danger lurking nearby.
He paused on a rug. An animal pelt. A beaver? No. Faux fur.
He stared down, feeling his anger rising.
Fake fur... what did they think they were doing?
He stared at the fake carpet, and for a moment, he forgot his mission. Forgot the pain markings on the house. Forgot...
Everything.
He glared at the carpet, teeth twisting into a snarl. He then glanced towards the kitchen, spotting the sink. Did it have a garbage disposal?
He reached down, plucking the thin carpet off the ground with an angry jerking motion.
He marched over to the garbage disposal. The mission was on hold for a moment. His personal vendetta taking precedence.
He pulled a hooked knife from his belt. Using it, he ripped the fake rug apart, feeding it piece by piece into the disposal.
The disposal made an angry, growling noise, like an engine running old oil.
The house didn't stir, but he thought he heard a floorboard creak above.
He ignored it, feeding the final piece into the disposal. It lodged and stuck.
The grinding sound died.
