The Intruder

I'm not afraid to admit that I hate staying alone in any type of house overnight.  I don't know what it is, but I've probably watched one too many horror movies.  I mean, the scenarios are fairly realistic: an innocent girl sitting in the living room typing on a computer when suddenly...wait, what?  Actually, there is a curtain-less glass door directly behind the couch I'm sitting on which means Michael Meyers IS out there in the woods, staring at me.  Too bad I'm not babysitting, dipshit. 

What's interesting is that the nights spent alone at my house in Baltimore weren't nearly as scary; the drunks stumbling home from the bar and pissing on my stoop was oddly comforting.  The presence of animals always help too; there was a small mouse that came and went as it pleased; on the days I didn't see it, I just figured it was upstairs in the attic singing with the other mice while sewing me a dress for the ball.

Back in Frostburg, I lived with 3 other people.  The layout was fairly simple: 2 bedrooms and a bath at each end.  As long as 1 other person was home, I felt secure.  One night, while everyone had gone home for the weekend, I was left to my own devices. It was a rare occasion that I decided not to go out.  It was around 3:30 am (prime time for a rape/murder) when I woke up to the loud, heart-stopping crash.  Let's forget the notion that I was in the middle of a deep, dreamless, sober sleep - the best kind, really.  I was faced with the horrifying reality that someone had broken into my apartment.  I was paralyzed with fear and didn't make any moves for a few minutes.  I looked around my bedroom for possible weapon choices - 'Hawaiian' scented Febreze? Awesome, I'll just blow him away with a spritz of orchid & pineapple.

I hear a muffled noise coming back from the other end of the apartment.  I run back to my bed and start texting a couple of friends who I know are still awake at this ungodly hour - because texting/calling anyone who isn't emergency personnel with surely save my life.  I should've just called Dateline - because it was OBVIOUS I would be featured on the next episode.  One of my friends, in their drunken, uninhibited confidence was like 'go cechk tha hsit out'.  Isn't that what always happens in the movies?  Follow the sketchy noise and and you're toast...ok, let's give this a shot.

I slowly open my door and try to look with one eyeball and naturally, I can't see doo doo because it's pitch black Vin Diesel style.  With the door ajar, I can hear water in the bathtub running at full force.  At this point, I'm seriously pinching myself to wake up because there is no way that what is happening right now is real life.  Whoever was in my apartment was in the bathroom - running water to later drown me in it.  As I'm carefully top toeing down the hallway, I'm reaching for every light in my path.  I get to the bathroom - no movement, but the water is still rushing and it's deafening.  I've never been to Niagara Falls but that is what I imagined it to sound like.

I turn the bathroom light switch on - the room brightens and the terror that lasted for 20 minutes is quickly absolved.  It turns out there was no bathing rapist after all.  In the tub were the casualties of 5 shampoo bottles that had fallen from the shower caddy.  Miraculously, during the plummet, the bottles turned the faucet on.  I know, I know...all that excitement for nothing.  I'll admit that a small part of me was disappointed, along with Lester Holt & Keith Morrison.