This week’s post comes from RC Bonitz, author of A Blanket for Her Heart. The theme is once again- “My favorite color is x and it tastes like…”
I hate it when I wake up in the middle of the night like this. Something, a noise, whatever drags me out of sleep and then I can’t get back to dreamland for hours.
Light from the street steals around the edges of the blinds, casting phantom shapes and shadows in my bedroom. Freaks me out sometimes, especially when the house creaks too.
What was that? Something sliding, a window, the glass door in the family room? I’m awake now, yes I am. There’s silence again, did I imagine the noise? No!
Footsteps now, sneaky, moving through the house? This can’t be happening, must be my imagination, has to be a dream.
The floor creaks, the kitchen door squeaks, oh God, someone’s in my house! I grab the bedside phone. Too late, it’s dead!
I have to get away. I throw back the covers and jump from my bed. I’ll go out the window, quiet as I can. Or should I shout and try to scare him off? Too late, the bedroom door swings open and the light goes on. He’s there, a man, dressed in black, a very shiny knife in his hand.
He smiles, an evil, vicious smile it is. “Well, well, what have we here.”
“Go away. I called the police,” I shriek.
“Not on that phone you didn’t”
I’m trembling, shaking, scared to death. There’s something about this guy. “What do you want? Take anything, I don’t care.”
His smile becomes more sinister. “Don’t worry I will. What’s your favorite color?”
He glances around the room. “Looks like you like blue I guess. Dull color if you ask me.”
I’m shaking now. What an insane question.
He takes a step closer, and then another. “Now me, my favorite color is red. Have you ever tasted red?”
I try to back away, but he matches me step for step. I’m up against the wall now. “What? No, I don’t know.”
“Sure you have. Wine, jelly, tomato. Now me, I like something stronger. Bet you can’t guess what.”
I can’t speak, can only shake my head.
He switches now and simply stares at me. I cringe, my heart stops at the evil in his eyes.
“Blood,” he says, so softly I can barely hear him.
He takes one more step closer and swishes the knife through the air, back and forth in front of me, coming closer all the time. “I’m not a vampire. I just like the taste of blood.”
This can’t be real, must be a dream, but he’s right there in front of me. The knife comes slashing at my throat. I throw up my hands to block it. Too late, oh God, too late.
The Spot Writers- our members:
Catherine A. MacKenzie