(I'm typing this on my IPad so please forgive me).
THE SLASHER IN:
THERE'S A KNOCK AT THE DOOR
There's a knock at the door.
Your eyes peel open, tired and itchy from a long day at work, you were asleep, dreaming of things separate from everyday things, and instead imagining wonderous worlds where anything can happen. It's very late, or very early depending on your perspective, and as you slide out of bed, leaving the warmth of your duvet cover, you feel a chill running through your apartment, one caused by a breeze that seems to be floating through your home.
There's no one at the door.
Poking your head out into the hallway, you take one look left and another look right but see nothing except the doors leading to other individuals and residents of the building getting some much needed sleep, which is what you should be doing. Closing the door and locking it tight, unnerved, you figure the knock at the door must have been in your dream, or have come up from another floor.
That's when the chill strikes you again, leaving its signature on your pink, fleshy body, and you decide to try and close your window before returning to the comfort of your own bed, for a well deserved rest.
It's coming from the kitchen.
Grabbing a dressing gown and stepping onto cold, white tiles, you locate the culprit, a small window found just above the stove, which you absent mindedly switch on which reaching for the window, so used to the routine you enact every morning before breakfast.
Then you hear the knocking again.
Only this time it's not coming from the front door, it's coming from across the street, travelling through your window like an unwanted guest, far above the ground and winding into your ear like an infection, rotting the inside of your brain.
Your tired eyes are startled awake upon witnessing the source of the noise, any traces of drowsiness long forgotten. In a neighbouring apartment building, just a few floors lower than your own, you see two men. One of the men is dead, the other is the man who murdered him, slamming his head repeatedly into the window you're staring at like he's a drum, creating the free flowing rhytham you've been listening to all night.
Horror fills your guts, then the man sees you.
A grin, the last thing many a victim must have seen, breaks out across his face, masked by shadow. He drops the body he's been toying with and stares right at you for a moment, sick thoughts crossing his mind before he simply raises a finger towards you and begins to move it up and down, mouth shaking slightly like he's almost talking to himself.
The gesture confuses you, so you drop beneath the window and begin to panic, thinking about what you just saw. Terrified beyond belief, you turn off the kitchen light, hoping that the darkness will somehow shield you, but instead it merely adds to the terror you are feeling.
What did he mean?
Maybe this fear could be removed if you just figure out what the man was trying to tell you. He pointed straight at you, maybe he was saying to be quiet? But then what was the finger movement about?
You look back to the building and the man's gone.
Then it hits you, the man's gesture wasn't telling you anything. He was counting.
Counting what floor number you were on.
There's a knock at the door.