"Trisha.... I know you're here, Trisha." the killer's voice bounced off the walls in the hallway. She could hear him softly padding towards her, carefully measuring his steps, listening for the slightest noise.
"Are you in here?" he pushed open the bathroom door. She heard the signature squeal the door made every time.
Have to oil that door, the thought drifted across the her mind. She would've smiled if the absurdity of the thought had had time to register. Her senses and mind were in hyperdrive. Everything in the highest definition of detail, every second ticking by like an hour.
"You're not in the potty," the killer said in a sing-song voice, as if talking to a toddler. "Not many places left now."
If there is a god I should probably pray to her now, Trisha thought. Her hiding place in the closet under a pile of Christmas decorations wasn't exactly inspired. She heard the killer enter the room. Her pulse quickened, she unconsciously held her breath.
She heard him look under the bed, then he opened the closet door. A long pause, then he closed it.
She heard him turn and leave the room, then walk out the front door, slamming it behind him.
What the fuck? she thought, puzzled. She didn't know what had just happened.
Trisha waited for what she thought was about 5 minutes before coming out of the closet. She opened the door and looked out into the bedroom. No one there. She breathed a huge sign of relief and walked to the bedroom door. As it swung open she was frozen in place. The killer stood there, smiling, knife in hand.
"There you are."
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