When the daylight has faded

Thud (#limit)

It looks like a Sunday evening before Christmas.

She is sitting in front of the TV, watching one of those festive Christmas reruns like Die Hard or The Long Kiss Goodbye, a crystal glass filled with wine in her hand, feet curled up underneath her. Surreptitiously, you try to imitate her grace, nearly dropping your own cheap wine in an attempt of getting your feet next to your butt.

She is young and impossibly beautiful. But what did you expect? Crooked teeth and Prince Charles's ears?

No, her eyes sparkle like diamonds, her skin glows like peaches in the summer sun and her soft brown hair shines like a cup of Kenco Smooth. Men cling to her like Velcro, but she's developed a Teflon skin that nips any testosterone-fuelled, Axe-enabled approach in the bud. You assume anyway, and hate her already.

Sensuously, she raises her long-stemmed piece of crystal. A soft moan escapes her when she swallows, then sits back to close her eyes.

The man next to you is lost in the lady's beauty, world forgotten.

You stay alert, though. You know it's coming and you're not falling for it. Unbelievably, you jump all the same when it happens, spilling your wine onto your trousers.

Thud.

You recover quickly and try to cover the embarrassing incident up by pretending your leg has gone to sleep, then notice Mr Drooling next to you has forgotten you exist. He's all too busy with a wayward limb of his own.

Thud.

You see her lean body jump off the settee, her sparkly eyes frantically roaming the room, her hazelnut hair mimicking her moves softly. Then her eyes focus on the living room door. The very shut door behind which lies absolute darkness.

A pleasant shiver is running down your spine now.

Thud.

The noise is coming from the darkness, you notice with equal amounts of pleasure and fear.

She creeps past the glass table that offers sanctuary not only to her wine but also to her mobile phone. A phone which she naturally leaves behind.

It's your turn now to shake your head, but you have to admit that your hair is not equipped to mimic anything gracefully.

She puts her ear to the cellar door.

Thud.

She eases the door open and slips through it.

'Don't go down there! Phone the police! Run!' we scream at her, but, of course, she doesn't listen and carries on. We expected nothing less, though, because this is what we signed up for.

Three seconds later, she stops. The dark has engulfed her now, but luckily a torch lies within reach. Of course, it would have been a damn sight luckier if she had been in possession of her mobile, a device that, next to a source of light, also includes an enormously useful telephone function. But where would be the fun in that?

Torch in hand, she descends the steps into the cellar, calling softly, "Hello, who is there?"

We could ask ourselves at this stage why she is whispering when the light and her voice are giving her bloody location away anyway, but we don't.

Two tense minutes later, she has found a dripping tap. She sighs and turns towards the stairs again, not knowing about her limited life span. But you know. Still, when the knife slashes her throat, you scream and throw yourself into the cushion to block out all audio and visual input.

The man next to you pulls the cushion off you with a grin.

"It's only a bloody movie, silly, and it served her right. There's only a certain limit of stupidity I can tolerate."

You heart rate finally slows down when you hear a thud upstairs.

"What was that?" you whisper.

"Let me go and check!" Your partner disappears up the stairs, his phone forgotten on the living room table.