Danny sinks down into his leather chair, propping his elbow onto the lean to rest his chin in his palm. Out of habit, the man chewed on the back of his pen. Luckily, they're roughly ten cents each -- journalism doesn't pay well. And planned murder is more expensive than one may think.

His eyes roamed over the list. A list of names. People he had stalked in the last months, their routines neatly written down. Not his most exciting targets but the easiest of them, for if he randomly felt the urge to kill.

Tonight, you would have to suffice.

His stomach felt more and more giddy as he thought of the blood and screams, the fear. Pushing his tactical knife into the knife sheath around his upper thigh, he continued with his signature cheap cologne, imagining how you would get confused by the smell of it -- little did you know, it's his twisted way of announcing himself. Though, how would you know? None of his victims survived to tell the tale.

Cocky as he was, he made sure to enter your house in a way that your badly placed security camera would pick up, just so that, afterwards, he could have a nice picture to put in the news.

His boots barely made any noise as he moved, following the faint noise of the TV. A soft clinking took his attention and he looked down to see what he assumed to be your cat playing with a low hanging decoration from your christmas tree. Amused, he knelt down, silently catching the cats attention. Determining that it's friendly, he picked the cat up to carry it to the table. A cat destroying christmas decoration will not ruin his plans.

What are ten seconds? You were asleep. You ALWAYS fell asleep on the couch on Saturdays because that's when your trashy show was on. He'd stalked you for months to be sure.

Dannys thoughts were stopped by a loud click to his side, making him turn his head to see YOU, holding a gun at him.

"Clever." He stated in a deep voice, dropping the cat to raise his hands slightly.

If you thought a pistol would save you from THE Ghostface Killer, you were dead wrong.