You Shouldn't Have Called 911
"The body of Jamie Wilkins was
found at her home last night," The reporter said. "No evidence
has been located as yet, although we have received an anonymous tip,
claiming that Miss Wilkins's ex-boyfriend may have been responsible
for her murder. If anyone has further information, please do not
hesitate to call nine-one-one."
He snarled, rigid with fury.
He knew it had to have been her; she was the only person who knew the grim details of his breakup with Jamie.
He knew what needed to be done.
Sarah pulled into her driveway.
As she gathered the groceries and approached the front door, she did not notice that anything was amiss.
She closed the front door behind her, the thud drowning out the soft sounds of movement from the hallway.
The rustling of the plastic bags covered his footsteps.
Behind her, he leaned casually on the doorframe.
She spun, shrieking.
She backed against the kitchen bench, knocking the egg carton to the floor.
Her hand fumbled for the telephone.
"You really don't want to do that." Michael growled.
He advanced, fingering the tip of his machete casually.
"You know, calling nine-one-one was a really bad idea." He purred.
He smiled, his ice-blue eyes staring directly into her soul.
"Please, Michael," She pleaded. "Don't hurt me."
He smiled again.
"I can't promise that, Sarah."
He took another step toward her, and another.
The machete rose, his hand gripping the hilt so tightly that his knuckles were white.
She screamed, her blood-curdling shriek melting into a gurgle as the blade sliced through her throat.
Blood sprayed in a great arch across the wall.
He dropped the knife, laughing almost hysterically.
He then dropped to his knees beside her bloody corpse, and fumbled through his pocket until he found what he was after.
The sound of his laughter ended abruptly as the gunshot rang throughout the house.