From The Vulture's Eye.

I sit still, it's the eighth day now, the eighth day that he has been trying to deceive me. I know not why, but I surmised that he was after me, despite his friendly attitude during the day time, something was wrong. Now I know.

I do not know what bothered him, I had been friendly, I had simulated a resort even, making him feel at home. I am not a sound sleeper, when he had shone the light on my eye, the eye that he seems to despise, I could tell. Dehydration might be what is driving him, this far west, but I had corroborated that he was mad long ago. His endeavor in life was to kill me, I knew that now, and I knew that if I screamed, if I yelled, that figure clad in black at my door would pounce.

He is not cursory in his manner of murder, I have sat here for long. Yet, I have derived that tonight would be the night; I should have called the police, I could of. I grimaced as light shone into my eye, and I gingerly moved for my baseball bat lying far across the room. Too far, damn. I make an inventory in my mind of things I could use to protect myself, or better, kill him. Yet, I find nothing. Please god, let the neighbours see the light. Suddenly his bloods shot eyes tighten, and he jumps toward me. I use the least amount of breath I possibly can to shriek, to try to warn the neighbours, for the police to come.

I have lived my life, but I can't let this madman live his. I punch and scratch and bite and there are abrasions all over him, yet he won't give up. I need to let the police find him, for I can already feel the end coming. He hits me and I land face down on the ground, the pain electrifies me. I feel one of my last teeth come loose, not dead yet though, not yet. Now I roll over, just in time to see my bed come down towards me, to put me to sleep one last time. There are colors, noises, and images flooding my head, final dreams flying past.

And then… there are none.

*This short story is related to Edgar Allan Poe's "Tell-Tale Heart"