Stalker

Night. The house was quiet.

You're only nineteen, and you've recently moved out of your parents' house and into your own. It may be small, but it was bought with hard-earned money. It was heartwarming.

You came home tired that evening: work, then university—you had no energy left. You didn't even bother washing your face. You quickly changed and collapsed into bed, falling asleep almost instantly.

Late at night you were awakened by a quiet rustling sound.

At first, you thought it was the wind. Or the cat in the yard. Your heart beat calmly—right up until the moment you finally woke up and realized:

There is someone in the house.

A chill ran down my spine.

You felt for the pepper spray—you always kept it close at hand—and slowly rose from the bed. Your breathing became quieter, your steps more careful. As you left the room, you turned on the kitchen light… …and froze.

A man stood in the hallway. He looked about twenty-eight. Tall, well-groomed, even handsome—but what the hell was he doing in your house?

You pointed the can at him, trying not to show how your hands were shaking.

"Who are you and how did you get here?" the voice sounded sharper than you expected.

He chuckled as if the situation amused him.

"Sorry, honey. Got the wrong house," he said, looking at you with a strange, overly attentive gaze.

You're confused. How could you mistake the house? Especially a closed one.

While you were trying to process what you'd just heard, he stepped forward, snatched the pepper vodka from you, and pinned you against the wall. The cold surface hit your back.

He leaned closer.

• You don’t believe me, honey?

His breath was too close.

And one thought was pounding in my head: You are alone. It's night. And help is far away.