Last night I was convinced he was coming for me. That he had found me. Doped up in that drugging limbo state before deep sleep, I heard the sound of his approach in the distance, as if on some other street somewhere; but in the space of seconds, there was the ominous thump of approaching footsteps on the path to the house.
Then the fearful clamour of what sounded like metal banging, falling heavily to the ground in a dull thud just outside as the footsteps came closer, running faster, pounding hard on the path until they came to rest directly beneath my bedroom window. They shifted about at first, the uncanny sound of heavy feet on the slates below (like he was wearing some kind of metal boots) laying a clammy hand of petrification on me in my bed and I could not move.
There was something unnatural in the way he was moving about – a dragging sound, like a dead weight was being hauled across the grass – was it even him? Now I wasn’t so sure as I lay there, my body frozen, my senses straining, sweat pulsing from my pores, condensing on my skin, making me deathly cold, and all the time I could hear a strange kind of breathing, an inhuman, rasping, metallic sound that forced its way into my room from outside.
Who was it? What was it? Too terrified even to breathe, or to reach for the knife that was just beneath my pillow, only inches away, I wanted to cry out but could not because my lips were clamped shut across my mouth, my jaw locked rigid. I do not know how long I lay there but I tried forcing myself to get up, to do something, anything, to protect myself and Lucas. And then I realised that whatever it was must have gone as quickly as it had arrived, but without making a sound, because I felt like some terrible suffocating shroud had suddenly been lifted from me in my bed.