I was just working on my art in the basement when I heard a bang upstairs. I personally like my privacy, however when I have guests one should do their best to please.
So there I was going upstairs one step at a time; the creaks like wounded cattle, almost too macabre to truly think about. The element of stealth was truly out of the question thanks to my obvious ascent. The front door was slightly ajar; whoever had caused such a ruckus had obviously let themselves in. I, of course, was vexed at the suggestion they could come in unannounced and take advantage of my good nature, and so I was quite certain I shall have a right good talking to whoever broke in.
I searched downstairs and there was no one, not even a sound. I decided that they must be upstairs - whoever they were - and so I began my ascent again. I took off my shoes this time to soften the creaks and made my way to the top of the stairs. I had my phone in my left hand and was prepared to call the police at a moment's notice, until I saw my bedroom door slightly open and shaking. I approached cautiously.
When I placed my hand upon the doorknob it felt warm, and I noticed a trickle of blood running down from the handle and a scratch into the wood directly above the knob. This, I distinguished from my powers of observation, showed that a person carrying a bloodied knife had entered my bedroom. I waited for a few seconds to gather my courage; as I am only a gentle artist, to open the door.
Upon entering the room I noticed a trail of blood leading to my wardrobe I slowly walked to my closet and opened the door. The man wasn't there, and I know he was a man because I saw him when I turned around. He had an unusual face: small green eyes and a big smile.
He had a knife in his hand and shortly tried pressing it into my stomach, but I relish in moments like these. I grabbed his hand and dropped my phone I then planted my left thumb and index finger into his throat; making way for the rest of my hand. In my right hand was the knife and the man's hand. I started to snap his fingers one by one.
He then dropped his knife and I soundly picked it up met his gaze and slowly slipped it into his stomach. The man had a good taste in blades; it was short and stocky, meaning that my hand could virtually work its way into the wound along with the blade. I left the knife in him and lifted him onto my shoulder, grabbing his left leg to make him easier to carry.
When I had reached downstairs I opened the doors to my basement and carried my dying prey down with me. He's a bit big for my usual type of work, but he'll look just fine here. He'll be having company soon.