The Criminal Calls Me Cupcake (Watty Winner 2013)

Chapter 10

Thank you for all the support I've been getting! Just reading through all the comments brings a smile to my face :)

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Chapter 10

            I tiptoed down the stairs, pocket knife in my hand. I had switched on every single possible light that I came across, since I was deathly afraid of the dark. Creak, creak. This time, that noise coming from the stairs was made by me. It was the exact same sound I had heard before, leading me to believe that there actually was someone in my house. I couldn't be entirely sure though, since I hadn't heard or seen anything unusual yet.

            The living  room seemed empty—nothing was out of place. Bathroom seemed…unused. I touched my hand to the knob of the closet door, about to open it, before I realized that this was usually the point in the movie where the audience is screaming, "Don't open it! Don't open it!" But the character doesn't hear them, or doesn't listen, and ends up opening the door. Everybody knows what happens next.

            Never in my life did I think my life was going to resemble a horror movie. I mean, those things only ever happen in movies. Was there an audience trying to warn me now? Were they trying to tell me not to open the door, unless I wanted to become food for some creepy monster lurking in the shadows? Maybe there was, and I just couldn't hear them.

            I was surprised I wasn't shaking at this point. I would have thought that all this fear and pressure would have gotten to me by now.

             I couldn't be a wimp now, though. Who knows if there even is someone in the house, let alone the closet. And if there did happen to be someone behind that door, I gulped, he would have to face the wrath of my two inch pocket knife.

            Hah, yeah right.

            I twisted the handle and pulled the door open. Shoes, coats, hats, but no person. A rush of relief flooded through me. I was being silly—imagining things. There was no one in my house.

            I proceeded toward the kitchen, suddenly hungry for some ice-cream. However, one look at the counter had me frozen. There lay a folded piece of white paper on the dark granite countertop. Next to it was a single rose, a smudge of dark red in the center, but other than that, mostly composed of petals the color of the night. A black rose.

            My heart began beating a mile a minute. That definitely was not there before, and that could only mean one thing—that there really was somebody in my house. Terror began to seep through me. The person could be watching me right now, planning his attack. I nervously glanced around me, my eyes lingering on every corner, every door, every window, every possible space that could fit a person. There was no one there, and nothing seemed out of place—there was nothing that gave the indication that someone was here.

            Maybe my aunt left the piece of paper on the counter. But the rose…she wouldn't leave a black rose for me.

            Maybe whoever left the note was gone already. Maybe I had a hater in school, who left the note and the rose, and took off. Yeah, that makes sense.