It was the hour of midnight. I was in a rather restless sleep. When I opened my eyes, I saw a glint of silver. I reached for my bedside lamp and flicked it on. There, hovering above my bed, was an extraordinarily tall man dressed head to toe in black, with a black mask covering his face. He was holding a knife. He pressed it to my throat. "Where's your money?" He asked. "If you don't answer honestly...." He gestured to show that he'd sink the knife deeper into my throat. I was petrified and out of shear terror I told him where my money was.
I waited until I was sure that the man had gone. I cautiously left my bed and made my way to the phone. I picked it up. My fingers were trembling as I dialled 111. Nothing happened. I waited one minute, two minutes, before putting the phone down. I checked the phone cord and, sure enough, it was cut. I went downstairs to try and find my cell phone. I searched and searched but I could not find it. Nor did my car start. I quickly pulled my jersey over my pyjamas and went to find my neighbour — Mrs Chalk.
I knocked on the door, held my breath, and waited. At the age of seventy-two, Mrs Chalk was quite deaf. I knocked louder and I soon heard the pitter, patter of feet on the wooden floorboards. A face peered out from the curtains beside the door and then it opened. However it wasn't Mrs Chalk who opened the door, it was the same man dressed head to toe in black holding a gleaming silver knife in his left hand. I turned to run, but by then it was too late. He grabbed me and knocked me over the head with the handle of the knife. Everything slowly faded into black.
When I awoke, I had no idea where I was. It was dark and my legs and arms were tied up behind me. I struggled to adjust my position and a wave of nausea kicked in. My head ached from the hard blow and a drop of blood trickled into my eye. I felt exhausted, as though I hadn't slept in days. Suddenly, the light above me flicked on. Outlined in the light was the same man who had abducted me, once again dressed head to toe in black and carrying a knife.
"Who are you?" I tried to scream, my voice coming out raspy. The man shook his head indicating that he would not or could not answer that question. "Are you Emma Johnson?" He asked, his voice much higher that I expected. "Are you daughter of the multi-billionaire Ralph Johnson?"
"Yes." I confirmed, unsure of where this conversation was going. "What do you want?" He stared at me for what felt like an eternity before answering. "I'm holding you ransom."
I had no idea how long I was in that room. I had no way to tell whether it was night or day. I simply sat in darkness knowing there was nothing I could do. The matter was out of my hands. I sincerely hoped that my father would pay the man however much he was demanding, but I feared that he wouldn't.
My father is a miserly man. I love him with all my heart but he is a scrooge. He is a superstitious, multi-billionaire yet he saves every penny and chooses to live in a small farm cottage, almost starving himself to death. I moved out the very day I turned eighteen. My father advertises his precious money but I doubted that he would spend any of it on me.
I was awoken from my light sleep by the flicker of the lights. Once again, my captor stood silhouetted against the light. This time he wasn't wearing black — but casual clothes. I could tell it was the same man by his extraordinary height and the rounded shape of his face. Somehow, when he wasn't dressed in black, he looked less foreboding. "You're lucky." The man scowled. He untied the bonds holding my hands and feet together. "Your father decided to pay the ransom." The man escorted me to the door, through the building and out into the light. He turned to go but I blocked him. "One question?" I asked. "Why did you wait until I knocked on the neighbour's door before capturing me?" He laughed, a sort of cruel and mocking laugh, he didn't give a straight answer but instead said: "I like to play with my food."
Back in my father's house, he hugged me tight while I wept against him in gratitude. "Why did you pay the money?" I asked. "I thought you didn't like spending your money." My father simply told me that he knew that there would be a time in his life where he would need his money. He didn't say how he knew.
