It was my first night alone, free from the cautious eyes of parents or guardians of any kind, all thankfully taken away from me for the weekend by a cousin’s wedding. I had freedom, the ability to walk around in any state of undress I chose (though I stayed bundled up for practicality’s sake, not to mention that windows adorn every outside wall of my home). I cooked dinner, burned dinner, and watched TV while chewing burned steak as my night’s activities, foregoing any social activities that day in favor of a fortress of solitude. I abhor clichés, so the idea of throwing a teenage party sounded fun for a few hours, but an exhausting following day of cleanup. I was given the opportunity to be irresponsible, something I relished.

After turning off all the lights in the house and burying myself in blankets, I realized I had not yet checked the doors before falling asleep. My eyes flung open, knowing it was unlikely anyone would try the door, and even more unlikely that I forgot to lock it from earlier in the day, but it was important to check for peace of mind. I approached the door and could clearly see the deadbolt in the unlocked position, which spoke to my absent-mindedness. I had become so overwhelmed by the majestic freedom splayed before me this weekend that I didn’t lock the door when coming in with groceries. It was good that I checked, I thought, as I turned the lock on the deadbolt. The click of the lock was accompanied by a quick shadow out of the corner of my eye, a silhouette that met my gaze for the briefest of moments in front of the door. It wasn’t anything, I told myself. I was giving myself jitters and the dinner I forced down did me no favors. I checked the locks again and walked back to my bed upstairs.

As my eyelids were weighed down and I dispossessed myself of any concern, I began to slowly drift off to sleep. I was worried about nothing, stressing myself for no good reason other than paranoia. In the morning, I would wake up, have a big breakfast, and—I heard a crash downstairs. What would be downstairs? The doors were locked. I locked them. I stepped out of my covers for the second time that night, bounding downstairs to confront my own delusions. I expected to see nothing, calm back down, then go back to sleep. I expected to laugh about this later. I didn’t expect to see a vase smashed against the kitchen floor. Not dropped, not fallen, not cracked, it had been smashed. Someone lifted it with effort and threw it to the ground with an equal amount of malice.

I convinced myself it fell. I was going to go to sleep, I was going to wake up the next morning. I kept telling myself this as I got back under the covers, tightening it around me like a cocoon and the morning would be my emergence day. I was going to wake up the next morning. I was going to burn my breakfast like I burned my dinner. I was going to wake up the next morning. That’s what I told myself as I faded to sleep.

I woke up well before the next morning, urged on by my bladder to move my way to the bathroom. By habit, I took each step spurred on by the momentum of the previous one, holding one eye closed to adjust to the changing light. I flushed the toilet, turned off the light, and walked back to my room only to run in to a closed door. Alarmed, I opened my eye and turned the doorknob, only to find the door completely locked.

Both eyes open, I caught a shadow with the corner of my eye again.

Then, he caught me before I could scream.