The rain poured down like a maelstrom of fury on the high seas. Inside his home Coach Anderson prepared a microwave TV dinner for one. He leaned lazily against his kitchen counter in naught but his underwear and a dirty shirt. The plastic packaging rotated slowly as the light of the appliance lit the room.

The signal broke and stuttered on the television as the storm battered the home's receiver. The garbled words of a late night host echoed through the empty house accompanied by the distorted canned laughter of the audience. Lighting struck, sending the silhouette of a person across the living room of the lonely wooden house.

The stone fireplace roared to life as the Coach threw in another freshly cut log. He rubbed splinters from his hands as he reclined in his chair and stuffed an over heaped fork of macaroni and cheese into his mouth. Its heat threatened to burn his tongue as he blew air from his mouth in a desperate attempt to cool his food.

The television flashed and died as all light in the house was snuffed out. Bewildered by the sudden darkness the Coach coated himself in his piping hot meal. Through gritted teeth and many expletives he cursed the storm for its part in his light burning. He brushed what he could from himself and stood up to march for the door.

Flinging the heavy wooden door open he sheltered his head with his arms as he made for his properties power pole. The rapturous winds threatened to lift him from the ground or send him sliding down the soft mud track. Pushing through the sea of rain and wind he reached the end of the line and found it slack on the ground.

He picked up the thick black rubber wrapped cable and followed it back towards his house. He followed the sound of his screen door smashing against the waterlogged wood of his porch. He battled through the elements and reached the end of the cable sparking in the dirt. Just below its connection to the house a small woodcutting hatchet was embedded into the wall.

The Coach ran back inside and slammed the door. He secured its many bolts and ran for the house phone in his kitchen. Picking up the receiver he was met with nothing. The line was completely dead. He reached into a draw and pulled from it a large meat cleaver. He held the blade at his side as he listened for anything in the darkness.

Thunder shook the house as a soccer ball bounced down the stairs of the hallway step by step. It finally came to a rest in the hall with its Nike tick logo facing towards him. Two black eyes had been playfully scrawled above the tick to give the impression of a face. The mocking grin chilled the Coaches bones.

Gripping the handle of the cleaver tightly the Coach slowly climbed the creaking wooden stairs. Sweat lined his brow as the lightning struck again. The light cascaded through from his open bedroom door illuminating his face. Tears had begun to well in his eyes as he grappled with the fear of his sanctuary being invaded.

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

He paced slowly across his landing above his living room desperately begging the wooden floorboards to stay silent as he crept. He squinted to see into the darkness of his bedroom. In his concentration he failed to notice the figure veiled in black now stood behind him at the top of the stairs.

Creaking open the bedroom door the lightning struck again illuminating a familiar duffle bag. It lay on the bed open with its contents spilled across the sheets. Hundreds of developed photographs and polaroid's of children of varying ages. All displayed in lewd or compromising positions or situations.

The Coach scrambled towards the heinous contents of the bag and tripped on a line that had been strung across the floor. He crashed to the ground as the cleaver fell from his hand and clattered across the floor. He held his head as he rolled over and looked up to the ceiling.

WE KNOW

The words were scraped into the white paint of the bedroom ceiling. The lightning had struck again illuminating the message. The Coach scrambled for the cleaver in fear as he dragged himself from the floor. His panicked breathing turned to cold mist in front of him as he in a panic made for the door.

He stepped out onto the landing in another flash of light that was blocked by the silhouette of the figure in black standing at the end of the hall in front of the window. “Who the fuck are you what do you want!?” he cried in desperation as the figure took a step towards him. He gripped the cleaver tightly and pointed it towards the figure.

“I don't wanna hurt you! Just leave!” the figure took three rapid steps towards him “look i have money ok you saw nothing in that bag right?” his hand shook with the weight of the cleaver held in front of him. The figure took several fast steps towards him backing him against the bannister of the landing.

With a swift movement the cornered Coach swung the cleaver forward. His wrist was caught by the gloved hand of the figure and twisted. A spark of pain flew through his hand and caused him to lose the handle. The blade clattered to the ground and fell from the landing to the living room floor below.

As the figure held him he used his free hand to grasp at the covered face of his assailant. The figure wore a thick black shawl that covered most of their face. Only the piercing grey eyes of his attacker reflected the lightning as it crashed once more.

The bannister began to bend and crack under the pressure of the attack. In a moment that felt like a lifetime the wood gave way and the coach tumbled down to the floor of the living room crashing through the thick glass coffee table as he went. In his hand he held the shawl of the figure. He watched as the figure began to walk towards the stairs.

“Look I know he's seen my face but” a somewhat familiar voice echoed through the home. “Maybe we can just tell him to” a frustrated grunt came from the figure. “God damnit.” The figure descended the stairs slowly and began to walk towards where the cleaver had landed.

In another flash of lightning the Coach, bloodied and bruised, tried to sit up but the pain radiating in his chest forced him back down. He tried to reach out with his arm but found his wrist broken from the figure's grip. He coughed as blood began to fill his lungs and spill from his lips.

Another lightning strike and he saw the figure crouched down facing away picking up the cleaver. More flashes came in rapid succession each time revealing the figure to be closer and closer. The shawl was torn from his uninjured hand and a swift food pinned his chest to the ground.

The figure breathed a heavy sigh. They were resolute in what they had to do. The Coach looked up as the lightning lit the figure's now uncovered face. Through the blood in his mouth and the pain in his chest the coach wheezed “Why?” with a deep breath in from the figure the cleaver swung down.

In his final moments he glimpsed the face of a boy he once thought to be a baseball prodigy. Shock and betrayal bled from his wounds as his life left him and soaked into the thick wool carpet. In a distant cabin in the woods a page of a leather bound book turned to ash and fell away.