There was one person too many in the house when he sprang from the closet. The man really didn't look dangerous. His plain white shirt and black jeans did not appear threatening. His uncombed brown hair and lean build did not startle Rachel. Even his hazel eyes, empty as they were, did not alarm her. It was the butcher knife he gripped in his right hand that chilled her blood. "Little girls like yourself shouldn't be home alone. They might get hurt or killed or….." He sprang at her with the deadly blade, forcing her to the ground. She screamed from both fear and sheer surprise. He held the knife to her throat with one hand and began to unbutton her cream-colored blouse with the other.
Rachel struggled violently, yelling, "Get off of me, you sick weirdo!" He only grinned and continued. She clawed his right arm with her pointy nails, breaking the skin. He shrieked and dropped his weapon. Rachel quickly snatched it in her right hand while her attacker was briefly injured. She then sliced him across the hand, shoving him off of her and onto the soft, pale blue carpet as he howled in pain. The thought of calling the police never crossed her mind as she ran to fetch her axe.
One of the larger rooms in the house contained weapons of every type: crossbows, guns, swords, morning stars, and battle axes. She hastily plucked the oak handle that supported the razor-sharp curved blade from the wall. She put the knife aside on a nearby shelf. Her attacker had risen from his spot on the blood-stained carpet and grasped his wounded hand in his left. Rachel laughed madly, raising the axe above the man's unprotected head. Bringing it down in a motion of brutal, devious grace, she heard his final screech. Red droplets stained the clean half-unbuttoned blouse. Death was not enough, though. The girl slowly hacked her attacker's corpse to crimson pieces. The blood flowed so beautifully; the red colour seemed so perfect and pure. It saddened Rachel to perform the inevitable gathering of the remains in a garbage bag. Slightly before one in the morning, she buried the black bag deep within her backyard. It required little effort, as the rain had given the earth a soft, moist quality.
After returning the shovel to its proper place, she retreated to her inner sanctum with dirty, bloody hands. The faded blue carpet in her home carried bits of red here and there. Some came from tonight's visitor, but others originated from several of Rachel's victims. The spotless walls were decorated with pictures of dead bodies, destroyed cities, and an iron maiden. She carefully washed the knife as well as her hands. "Another piece for my collection." Rachel smirked, placing the knife in an empty display case beside the axe. She didn't have to do anything; he had come to her! Eyeing the blade, she wished she'd gotten something more personal from him like a ring or a watch. Normally, souvenirs came in this form. Still, the knife would do nicely.
