There is someone downstairs. They are treading lightly, but I have unusually sensitive hearing, and I can hear their footsteps.
Across the living room floor. Into the hallway. Yes . . . now taking the left turn into the stairwell. Up they come, slowly, trying to be noiseless--but I can hear. I know exactly where they are.
Now onto the second floor landing, and along the hallway. Oh God, oh God, the steps are nearing my door! It's locked, but what good will that do.
There is a crash, and the door is flung inward to bang against the wall. A full moon floods my bedroom with an eerie light.
And the tall, thin form slouches into the room. I get a good, long look--and it is he. In God's name how could it be he?
There is something in his hand. I recognize it. I used it once, then burned it. Now it is back, along with him.
He crosses the room, stands over me, gazing down with sightless eyes. He lifts the object--yes, it is the axe--and holds it for a moment above me.
Now I hear someone screaming. Such a wild and foolish sound!
And then, as the blade descends, the sounds dwindle to an anguished, hopeless moan, and I realize it is my own . . .