Blood dripped from his fingers. It was grotesquely brilliant when it caught the pale slivers of moonlight. Susan stifled a scream; smothering her terror before it could escape her trembling throat. From her refuge beneath the bed, she could not see him clearly, his visage obscured by the oppressive darkness that enshrouded the room. The only color that populated the scene was the ruby liquid that ran from his hands and pooled on the floor.
The man paused at the foot of the bed, turning a blade over in his hand. There was a disturbed, methodical quality in the way he would turn and flick the steel through the air, leaving a splatter of blood across the wall. It was as if he was a painter and the wall was his canvas. A sky of crimson stars now adorned Susan’s bedroom wall.
Her heart was battering her chest, desperately pleading to break free from its hollow cage. Fear had wrapped its frigid claws around Susan’s soul and beckoned her to the edge.
“Oh, little bird,” the man cooed, “where have you gone?”