Cassandra cracked a window in the living room, allowing fresh cool air from the autumn night in. Snapping off all the lights except the one by the armchair, she walked through the hall into the kitchen. After a few minuets of bustling about making a cup of tea, she returned to the den, cup and book in hand. She curled up in the chair, opened her book to the newest dog-eared page, and quickly became engrossed with the story.

The cup grew cold as Cassandra left it on the side table. Her eyes skimmed the pages faster and faster, her heart beating quicker with every passing moment.

In her book, the hero walked into the house, oblivious to the obvious danger that the readers were all too eager to see. Her heart skipped a beat as he pushed open the door to the bedroom, where death surely awaited him.

Four short knocks echoed off the front door, and Cassandra let out a surprised yelp. She looked over at the clock in the corner; its bright green numbers read 11:30 p.m., glowing in the semi-darkness. Who the hell could that be? She thought to herself, getting up from the chair. She folded over her page and tossed it on the side table.

Her heart beat loudly in the silence as she walked slowly down the short hallway to the front door. She switched on the porch light and peered through the crack between the curtain and the window. A man stood on the porch, alone, wrapped in an oversized black overcoat. A heavy mist had begun to fall, and his hair was lightly weighed down by the moisture. His face was shadowed as he hung his head against the rain, and Cassandra was unable to make out any facial features.

She disengaged the dead bolt and opened the door, but left the chain on. She peered through the three inch gap between the door and its frame. “Can I help you?” she asked in a quavering voice.

The man lifted his head and smiled. His face was kind, but also, in an odd way, hard. “I’m sorry to disturb you miss,” he said, “it bein’ so late and all.” His voice had a faint southern drawl; as if the accent had been worn down by years of living up north. “My engine died and I haven’t got a cell phone. Always thought they were a passin’ fad, but I guess I was wrong. Anyway, I was wondering if I could call a tow truck.” He smiled again.

Cassandra looked past him down the road, where she saw car headlights shatter the darkness. Her heartbeat quickened once more.

“Um…let me call for you. It should only take a few minuets.”

“I understand; no worries.”

She shut the door and hurried down the hall into the kitchen. She grabbed the receiver off the wall and quickly punched in the phone number of the local police department.

She didn’t hear the door creak open, or the metal cutters slice through the flimsy chain.

“Hello? There’s a man on my porch who says that he needs a tow truck, but I know he’s lying…He said that his engine was dead, but he left his car running in the street.” He slowly walked down the hallway, leaving a shining trail of footprints on the floor behind him. He put the cutters back into the handmade pocket on the inside of his coat and slowly made his way to the kitchen.

“No, I am not being paranoid! What kind of inept, idiot police force are you!?! I am in danger! ...Thank you. I'm at – ”

Cassandra never heard him enter the house, or heard him creep slowly down the hallway, or heard the soft whisper of metal on cloth as he pulled a knife out of his pocket. But she felt the blade as it pierced her fair skin, digging deeply into her neck.

She let go of the phone and let out a gurgled yell. The man pulled the knife out with a quick jerk, and bent over to pick up the phone. He replaced it on the hook, ending the faint mumbles emitting from the receiver. Cassandra clasped her hands over the wound, trying desperately to keep the blood in, but the warm liquid escaped, silently seeping through her fingers.

The killer lashed out with the knife, and succeeded with a hit in her fleshy side. Cassandra let out a scream as pain washed over her in another wave. Her knees buckled and she fell to the floor. Tears ran down her cheeks as he hovered over her and she tried to push herself away, but ran out of room as she hit the cabinets. He blurred in front of her as tears welled in her eyes, and she whimpered piteously in fear.

He scoffed and shook his head. All these girls were all the same; so predictable. Then men were a little more mysterious. Some fought back; some begged for their life; some received death in rebellious silence.

He grabbed Cassandra around her neck one-handed and pulled her harshly to her feet. “Please. Please don’t kill me. Please…” Her plea came forth a shallow, moist whisper, her pale cream lips spotted with dark burgundy blood. He didn’t take any pleasure in hearing her beg; he wasn’t a pervert who got off on a woman’s fear. This just had to be done. Like washing the dishes… or shooting the beloved but sick family pet.

“Nothing personal. Wrong place, wrong time.” He thrust the blade deep into her soft stomach and jerked up towards her ribs, ripping apart flash and muscle, inviting a waterfall of blood to pour out of her; a warm red cascade of life.

She crumpled to the floor, twitching with agonizing pain watching her life seep from her body. Not wanting her to suffer, the killer bent over her, carefully positioning his knife on her chest. With a swift single motion, he plunged the blade between her ribs and into her heart. He watched with quiet fascination the sadness in her eyes in the last moments of her life. Her chest gave one final heave, and then Cassandra was gone.

He wiped the blade on her jeans and returned it back to his jacket pocket. “Two down; two more to go,” he said to himself.

He walked silently out of the house, leaving the body. That way the family could have a funeral without an empty casket. He jogged to his car, pulled the door closed as muted as he could, and drove as inconspicuously as he could down the street. He had to leave quickly; he didn’t know how long the police would take to respond to the call.

But one thing was for sure: they’d respond more quickly from now on.