The Killer Man

It was a stormy night in the little, forsaken town ofThe Killer Man The roads, smooth with water, glimmered under the scanty streetlamps as the tempest battered the windows of the overview houses. Hardly any considered branching out after nightfall. Not since the bits of hearsay started.

They referred to him as “The killer Man.”

Nobody knew his genuine name. Some said he was a phantom, the soul of a chronic killer who tormented the town’s edges. Others murmured he was a lunatic, living somewhere down in the forest, possibly arising when the weather conditions developed dull and the breezes cried.

For Claire, a single parent of two, such tales were just town tattle — stories intended to frighten kids. She could not deal with apparition stories. With her children at their grandparents’ for the end of the week, she enjoyed a night of harmony without precedent for months.

As the downpour poured, she sat on her loveseat, staring at the television with a glass of wine, her brain a long way from the stories of The Executioner Man. The breeze cried stronger, shaking her windows. A thunderbolt shook the house, and Claire bounced, almost spilling her beverage. She snickered at her jitteriness and got up to check the locks, it was secure to guarantee everything.

As she turned the bolt on the front entryway, she heard it. A delicate, intentional thump.

Claire froze.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Her heart started to pound. She wasn’t anticipating anybody. Who might be out in this climate? Gradually, she looked through the peephole.

Nobody.

She breathed out in help, faulting the breeze or a fallen branch for the sound. Be that as it may, as she ventured away, once more, there it was.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

This time, it was stronger. More conscious. Claire faltered, dread starting to crawl into her viewpoints. She went after her telephone, yet before she could dial, a voice came from the opposite side of the entryway. “Claire…”

She dropped the telephone in shock, her name reverberating in the unfilled house. The voice was quiet, practically taunting, as though it knew something she didn’t.

“Give me access, Claire… it’s a virus around here.”

Her breath was trapped in her throat. How did this individual know her name? Her most memorable intuition was to run, to escape to her vehicle, however, the voice proceeded, presently closer.

“I’m now inside.” Claire’s blood ran cold. Gradually, she went to confront the foyer prompting the rear of the house. In the faint light, she saw it — sloppy impressions, driving from the kitchen. Her heart beat as she understood reality. The Executioner Man wasn’t at the entryway. He was inside.

The television glimmered, creating shocking shaded areas on the walls. Claire snatched a kitchen blade, her hands shaking. As she edged toward the kitchen, she could hear faint breathing, profound and intentional, coming from the murkiness ahead.

“I’ve been sitting tight for you, Claire.” She whipped around yet saw nothing.

The voice came from all over the place and no place. Alarm grasped her as she pussyfooted through the kitchen, looking at the indirect access — it was locked, the windows secured. Out of nowhere, something moved behind her. A figure, tall and thin, rose up out of the shadows, his face concealed under a worn-out hood.

His breath was worn out, his developments slow however conscious, similar to a hunter relishing the feeling of dread toward its prey. Claire swung the blade fiercely, yet he evaded easily, his grin enlarging in obscurity. His eyes sparkled, mirroring the faint light, callous and hungry.

“You can’t get away from me,” he murmured, venturing nearer.

Claire pushed into the tight spot, her heart roaring, incapable of thinking, unfit to relax. The Executioner Man lingered over her, his hand connecting, cold and pitiless. Similarly, as she raised the blade once more, the lights flashed and went out, diving the room into absolute murkiness. All she could hear was his breath. Cold. Wet.

Closer.

Then, at that point, quietness. The following morning, the tempest had passed, and the police were called to Claire’s home. The entryway was unlatched, sloppy impressions following all through the house, yet Claire was mysteriously absent. The main thing left behind was the blade she had gripped, lying on the floor, and a note scribbled in blood on the wall:

“I generally get what I want.”

The legend of The Executioner Man developed that day, his presence everlastingly scratched into the apprehensions of Blackwood. They said he selected his casualties cautiously, tormenting them all of a sudden.

Be that as it may, one thing was sure — when he had your name, there was never a way out. The downpour returned that evening. Furthermore, someplace in obscurity, a thump reverberated through the town.

Thump. Thump. Thump.