At the end of a quiet road, behind a veil of twisted black oak trees, there was a house. A woman lived there. On bitter nights like this one, she sat by the fire and read until she grew tired enough for sleep. But on this night, as her lids grew heavy, she was startled by a sound. A sound she wasn’t accustomed to hearing these days. Who could be calling, she wondered? And this late? She rose from her chair and picked up the phone.
“I’m going to kill you,” a man with a deep voice said.
“Who is this?” she asked.
“Who is this?” she repeated, her hand trembling.
There was a click. Silence. She quickly dialled the police and explained what had happened. The officer told her to wait while he traced the call. After a few moments he said, “The call is coming from . . . inside your house.”
“That doesn’t make sense,” she said. “How could someone be inside my house?”
“He probably broke in,” he said.
“Oh yeah, I guess that makes sense.”
“And that’s not everything,” he said. “I’m not a police officer.”