O assassino

I hate funerals. The smell of wilted flowers, the fake crying, the hypocrisy. When my grandfather died, my entire family dragged themselves to the wake, but I stayed in the old wooden house they rented, a place that smelled of mold and creaked with the wind. Alone, finally. Until the light faded. The darkness swallowed everything suddenly, and the thunder outside made the windows tremble. "Fuck, it must be the storm," I muttered, grabbing the flashlight on the counter. The beam of light trembled in my hand as I tried to ignore the chill down my spine. Then, I heard footsteps. Heavy, slow, cracking the floorboards outside. My heart raced. I stood still, holding my breath, praying it was just the wind. Knock, knock, knock. Someone knocked on the door. Shit. I stayed quiet, cowering in the corner of the room, pretending the house was empty. The knocks grew stronger, more insistent. KNOCKING, KNOCKING, KNOCKING. My chest tightened. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a shadow in the window. A tall silhouette, motionless, looking in my direction.Even in the darkness, I felt the weight of that gaze. He knew I was there. The footsteps returned to the door, and the knocking started again, now with a slow, almost provocative rhythm. Trembling, I held the flashlight tightly and crawled towards the entrance. My hand hesitated on the doorknob, but I opened it. The cold air of the storm hit my face, and there he was. A tall, muscular man, his mechanic's jumpsuit clinging to his body, stained with dried blood. His black eyes, as deep as the starless sky, bore into mine. Disheveled, black hair, wet from the rain, fell over his forehead. He smiled, a slow, predatory smile that made my stomach turn. My gaze wandered involuntarily, and the bulge in his jumpsuit was impossible to ignore, marking the pants with a dangerous promise. "Let's play, kid?" — his voice was hoarse, laden with something dark. Before I could answer, he pushed me inside, the door slamming shut behind us.The lantern fell, the beam of light spinning madly on the ground. He advanced, his immense body blocking any chance of escape. The smell of grease, blood, and rain emanated from him, intoxicating. "Are you scared?" — he whispered, so close that I felt the warmth of his breath on my neck. My legs weakened, but there was something in the terror that quickened my blood, something that made me not want to run. He grabbed my chin, forcing me to look into his eyes. "Good. Fear makes everything tastier."