Page 5 of The Guy Next Door

Fuck.

I won’t be able to finish my shower without imagining becoming the victim of a slasher-movie-worthy attack, so I turn off the water and grab my towel, drying off quickly. Tying the towel around my waist, I search around for something I could use as a weapon.

If I were downstairs, I could get the baseball bat from the front closet in the foyer. Or grab a knife from the kitchen. Or check to see if Mom still keeps pepper spray in her office drawer. But I make do with a can of disinfectant spray. As I step out of the bathroom, holding the spray out before me—noticing the floral print design across the can—I feel like a fucking moron. I expect I’m gonna search the house only to find anoverturned plant or a book that’s fallen in the dining room, but my imagination tortures me with different scenarios, tailoring a horror movie where this scene could easily fit in.

A bead of sweat runs down my forehead, but as I reach the door, I force myself to turn the knob, then pull it open and peer into the hallway.

Another sound catches my attention.

This time it’s not coming from inside. Sounds like the backyard.

I hurry to the window and force the blinds apart.

My room light refracts off the windowpane, making it difficult to see, but I notice a moving silhouette on the inside of the fence.

The hell?

Is someone back there?

But that first sound was in the house, for sure. Was someone trying to get in and gave up?

I start to spin around when I’m shoved from behind, something pushing against my back. I jump from the scare, reaching back, and my elbow hits something.

“Ow, fuck!” I hear as I realize there’s an arm around my waist.

The blood drains from my face.

My heart races.

My throat dries.

The fuck is going on?

“Hey, hey,” the man who’s got me whispers, “I’m armed.”

I feel something at my cheek and turn to see a gun.

A fucking gun!

I freeze, and I realize that at some point when my attacker grabbed me, I dropped the damn disinfectant. Not that it would have done me much good, but it was all I had.

“Keep quiet,” he whispers in a low, deep voice. “Nod so I know you heard me.”

I obey, noticing how much my body’s trembling.

“Put your hands up by your head.”

Again, I follow his instructions, hoping to spare myself a bullet to the head.

“I’m not gonna hurt you, but you need to do what I say, got it?”

I’m sure that’s what any psychopath would tell his victim, but I nod anyway.

He keeps his arm tight around me as he guides me back toward my closet.

Really wish I’d signed up for a self-defense class at some point in my not terribly long life, but the best I could do now is maybe try some moves I’ve seen on TV and in movies and wind up getting myself killed.

As he opens my closet, I catch a glimpse of him in the full-length mirror.