Attempted Murder: A Night of Terror

Attempted Murder

The air was heavy with stillness, the kind that clamps down in the dead of night. Margaret adjusted her reading glasses and peered out the window for the third time in an hour. The street outside was empty, bathed in the soft orange glow of the streetlights, but Margaret's unease wasn't unfounded. Something felt off.

Three nights ago. There was a shadow across the street opposite, just beyond the old lamppost where the flame japs about like a candle that's running out. It wasn't evident whether it was somebody or something, but there it stood for hours on end. Margaret wrote it off as her imagination—until tonight.

At 2:14 a.m., just sure as the clock strikes noon, the shadow reappeared. Only this time, it had moved closer.

Margaret's fingers quivered to locate her telephone. She wanted to call her son, David. Margaret restrained herself. He is busy. I won't disturb him with this. She switched the light in the living room off and stayed there in the darkness. Her heart boomed in her rib cage.

The faint creak of the front gate made her heart race. She listened intently. That was footsteps she heard. Slow, deliberate steps crunching into gravel path. Whoever it was, he was coming toward her front door.

Her breath caught. She ran into the kitchen and grabbed the largest knife she could find. Adrenaline was coursing through her veins as she stood behind the wall, peering through the space that separated her from the door.

A knock shook the quiet stillness of the air.

It wasn't a knock, really. It was more of an assault on the door itself: aggressive, forceful. Margaret clutched the knife tighter, her mind racing.

“Mrs. Harper,” a man’s voice called out from the other side. It was deep, unfamiliar, and eerily calm.

Margaret didn’t respond.

“I know you’re in there,” the voice continued. “I’ve been watching you.”

Her blood turned to ice.

The man jiggled the doorknob, testing it. Locked. A low chuckle echoed through the night. “You think that’ll stop me?”

She had to call the police, but her phone lay on the coffee table, out of reach. She only had the option of staying hidden and praying that he went away.

Just then, there was breaking glass. He had smashed a window. Margaret instinctively took off. She ran toward the back door, bare feet silent on the hardwood floor.

But before she could reach it, she heard him inside the house.

"I just want to talk, Margaret," the man said mockingly. His footsteps were heavy, deliberate, as he walked through her living room. "It's rude to ignore a guest."

Margaret was shaking so hard she could hardly hold onto the knife. She had dived behind the kitchen counter, praying he wouldn't come her way.

"Do you know what it feels like," the man said, his voice growing louder, "to be ignored. To be tossed aside like trash?

Margaret’s mind raced. Who was this man? She didn’t recognise his voice, and she certainly hadn’t wronged anyone—or so she thought.

The footsteps stopped.

She held her breath, her body frozen with fear.

“I know you’re here,” he whispered, so close she could almost feel his breath. “And I’m not leaving without saying hello.”

She leapt from her hiding place, blade raised high. She turned to see the man and didn't have a problem with that, but she did have one with running.

He was already staring at her, his face obscured by a dark hoodie. In his hand he held a crowbar.

"You should've just opened the door," he sneered, taking a step closer.

Survival instincts for Margaret. She attacked him, knife raised; however, he proved to be too quick as he twisted her wrist. The knife clattered to the ground. She let out a scream that cut through the stillness of the neighborhood. He pushed her against the counter and pinned her arms. "You've ruined my life, Margaret!" he sneered. "Do you even remember me?"

Margaret's mind was racing. And then it hit her. The angry customer at her husband's hardware store, late in life. The one she refused to serve all those years ago after he caused a scene.

"Peter." she whispered, her voice trembling.

"Ah, so you do remember," he said with a twisted grin.

Peter barely got the words out of his mouth before sirens began to wail. Cars outside illuminated the darkness with blue and red lights. Panic ushered in Peter's face.

Margaret seized that split second of his attention to knee him in the stomach and escape. She scooped up the knife on the floor as cops broke in.

"Drop the weapon!" one cop yelled.

Peter froze, raising his hands in surrender. Margaret collapsed onto the floor sobbing uncontrollably as the officers took him away.

As the officers moved to take Peter out of the house, one knelt beside Margaret. "You are all right now, ma'am," he said softly.

But Margaret wasn't safe. She would never be quite safe again, for the shadow of Peter's rages would haunt her long after this night.

Epilogue:

The next day, this local news was covering an "attempted murder." But for Margaret, it was something more like a peek through the lens of how fragile life can be and how depth could lie in even the most hidden recesses.