Sandra hid in the closet’s dark smile, feeling the intruder’s gaze hot upon its door. The knife squirmed, reveling in the feel of her sweaty palm. The footsteps creaked unbearably loud as they neared her, tickling at the skin of her heels, until, unable to stand it any longer, she turned to peer through the slats in the door – her knee banging into it. The knife slipped from her hand. Lunging for it – too late.
–Original fiction from K.C. Mead-Brewer