The Intruder - Original Writing'It's always better when the lights are out, I'm the pick in the iceDon't scream or set off the alarm, you know that we're friends until we die' - Thom Yorke (Radiohead), 'Climbing Up The Walls' 'Alone. The most horrible word in the English language. Murder doesn't hold water and hell is just a poor synonym. Humphrey had read this somewhere, probably in a Stephen King book, he couldn't remember exactly which one, but he agreed with the passage then and he certainly completely agreed with it now. Although Humphrey was not alone, he was anything but alone. Humphrey was slumped in the corner of his room, his arms covering his head, his whole body trembling, his eyes unreservedly shedding sweat and bitter tears. He sat there in his dark room with Dread, who nudged him mischievously with his cold fingers. With Sorrow, who twisted his heart and ate him alive. With the Darkness, which enveloped Humphrey and the entire room under its tattered cloak. But worse than any twisted emotion, worse than any mutual deception of eye and light, worse than any betrayal melancholy thought Humphrey might have had, was Death, who came in the guise of an intruder who occupied the ground floor of his house, ravaging his home in a relentless chaotic frenzy. Despite Humphrey's feeble efforts to block out the noise, he could still hear everything. The crash of dishes and glass, falling and eventually shattering into pieces as they hit the floor and walls. The loud bang of his television projected across the room, crashing against a wall and the crackle of circuits popping. The contemptuous laugh of the intruder. It was a frightening, vulgar, high-pitched scream that penetrated the delicate walls of Humphrey's ear canal, went straight to his brain and exploded, the shrapnel severing his soft organ. It took a moment for Humphrey's mind to register all that sound. and the movement had stopped below.