When the cup is empty the nightmare starts

“What would you normally do?”

“I’d make myself a cup of tea.”

“Than do that. Act as if it is a completely normal evening.”

She nods in her dark, tiny kitchen. Her fingers reach for the light switch and the fluorescent tube flickers and plunks before slowly coming to live. It throws a harsh white light onto the old wooden countertop, cabinets and surrounding mint green tiles. She walks over to the tea kettle still standing on her stove. She picks it up and shakes it. There is still enough water in there for her cup of tea. She lights the stove and stares into the circle of tiny dancing blue flames.

“Is everything okay?”

“Yes, I am putting the kettle on.”

She puts it on the flames and looks for her tea tin. It stands where she left it this morning: on the wooden table that takes up most of the floor space of the kitchen. She reaches for it but stops as her eye locks onto the front page of the newspaper.

“That’s him, isn’t it?” she whispers.

“Who?! Is he there?” The detective asks worriedly in her earpiece

“No, I’m looking at the newspaper,” she quietly replies.

“Listen to me…”

She can hear the detective’s colleague cursing in the background, saying that it’s madness to use her as bait.

“…he may not even be in your house. It may all be a false alarm. Even if he is, we are less than five minutes away. He always has a cup of tea with his victims first. You do not need to worry. We will be there on time.”

She nods while the picture in the newspaper turns her stomach over and dries out her throat. Quickly she opens the tea tin and lets the familiar smell of Earl grey sooth her while her fingers slide over the golden embossing of figures harvesting tea.

Suddenly a creaking sound appears, barely noticeable over the low grunting of the old fridge in the corner. But she heard it and steps back, bumping into the fridge. Frantically she looks left and right. There is no one there in her tiny kitchen.

“I think I heard something,” she whispers

She waits for the comforting voice of the detective, but this time there is only a ringing noise in her ear. Then there is another slow creak. A gust of cold surrounds her body. Her heart starts racing and her hands clench into weak fists.

“I think he is here,” she squeals.

She looks around for a weapon, only then realizing that she didn’t close the backdoor properly. Her fear drains out of her body and her tightened shoulders relax a bit. She walks over and closes it again.

“It was a false alarm.”

There is still ringing in her ears, but before she can adjust her earpiece the kettle starts its shrill whistle. She quickly turns the stove off, scared of what that sound may attract. She listens for any movement, but it’s just the grunting fridge and the ringing in her ear. After two deep breaths, she grabs a porcelain cup and a tea strainer. With utmost precision she scoops the perfect amount of tea into the strainer and puts it in her cup. Then the backdoor creaks again as it slowly opens.

“Are you still there?” she whispers, while anxiously walking to the door.

There is no answer. They told her to be silent too. She grabs the door handle and hesitates for a moment. Did someone open the door? It doesn’t close properly, she knows that. Normally she locks it but the detective needs to be able to enter. She closes it again and walks back to her cup. She pulls the strainer out when the tea has the perfect brown-red colour. With the hot cup in er hands she almost forgets what is happening when she opens the door to the living room. The darkness in her living room reminds her of the danger that might be lurking there. Before her fearful thoughts completely paralyse her, her hand switches on the light.

It is just her comfortable living room. No one else is there. It was all a false alarm. Tears start forming in here eyes, but she holds them back. She closes the door behind her and walks over to her old armchair. She bends over to put her cup on the side table next to it, but instead her cups falls to the ground. It breaks on the wooden floor and splashes the boiling hot tea over her open shoes. She is too frozen to feel it. All she does is stare at the mug that is already standing on the side table. She never uses that mug, never.

“What took you so long? I already had my tea.”

She slowly turns around and stares at the figure standing in the shadow of the hallway. He has something in each hand. He steps forward through the doorway, into the light. One hand is holding rope, the other a bolt cutter. She wants to scream but she can’t. She can’t even breath. All she can do is watch as he comes closer with a grin on his face. Then, all of a sudden, she regains herself.

“Help!” she shouts as he steps close enough for her to recognize the sweet scent of his cologne.

A scent that once was a pleasant reminder to her uncle but will now forever be a reminder to this nightmare. She jolts towards the kitchen and he responds by slinging the bolt cutter at her head. He hits and she goes down. Pain pulsates through her head while blood starts running down her cheek and onto her lips. She tries to spit out the nauseating taste of iron, while fighting her way back to reality through the dizziness of the hit. He walks over to the door leading to the kitchen and turns around to face her. There he just stands in silence, watching how she tries to get back to her feet. When she is barely standing again, he slides over to her. His finger pushes into the wound, twisting, hurting. She tries to back away and he puts the blood covered finger into his mouth as if it’s candy. She steps back, a tear running down her face. The detective betrayed her. His guidance and help reduced to a ringing in her ear. She is on her own now. She gets up pointing her fingers at him as if she accepts her morbid fate. His eyes glisten and he smacks his lips two times before selecting her pinky with his bolt cutters. Just as he’s about to snap it off, she retracts her hands and turns around, running towards the hallway. She knows the front door is locked, so she races up the stairs. He lets out a low growl, which is interrupted by the sound of the backdoor swinging open. Help may finally be there, but she keeps fleeing. She enters her bedroom, slams the door shut and searches in her closet for a weapon.

Suddenly three shots are fired. She stops and listens. Silence. There is no movement, no sounds. She grabs a stiletto heel and squats down next to the door.

There she waits, holding the shoe with both her hands, ready to attack. The silence remains. She is too scared to go down, too scared for what she will find.

“Hello?” she whispers into the earpiece.

The only reply is the endless ringing. She pulls the earpiece out of her ear and listens. Then, one by one, the steps start creaking.