The Paroles Of JK

Consider this, as you sit reading, right hand on the mouse, left hand cupping your left cheek, flicking between tabs and reading between the lines and trying to find something interesting on the internet - good luck with that, by the way, those lolcats are bloody everywhere now - consider the door behind you. You can’t see it. You live in a nice house, and you have kind, considerate parents who carefully oil the hinges of all the doors so that they don’t squeak at all. Not even a tiny metallic protestation when the door is pushed gently open. And of course, you’ve got those earphones jammed into your head, listening to something undoubtably hip, trendy and totally underground, man, if only everything sounded like this, you’re just so fucking cool, god, but the thing about noise cancelling earphones is that they cancel noise, so when the masked man with a sharp knife and a demon in his ear smashes the glass on the back door and slowly, gently, twists the knob so that it slides open on its oiled hinges - such considerate parents! And of course it’s late in the morning; they’re out working hard to ensure that you have squeak-free doors and noise cancelling headphones and a laptop that keeps your distracted from humdrum noises you should worry about, like your dog who’s suddenly not barking, but hey, there’s this awesome indie flash game that’s like, totally the best thing since oiled hinges. It’s so dark and gritty, like Tim Burton wrote the code, and the soundtrack’s pretty awesome too. It’s so awesome you don’t hear the footsteps on the stairs, because if you did you might pause for a second and wonder who was in the house and maybe then you’d be on your feet right now instead of glued to the screen absent-mindedly noticing that in the reflection on your monitor you can see your bedroom door behind you swinging silently open and a man stepping through, a man who’s not your father, a man with a sharp knife that gleams in the reflection of this dark gritty game.

Right now you’re glued to this screen. It has a white background. You will not see the door open. If you turn around now you will know for certain if there is a man behind you with a knife and if there is he will kill you straight away. He will plunge that knife into your throat and it will hurt more than anything you have ever experienced. You will die choking on your own blood. Drowning in the fluid that keeps you alive. Ironic. Isn’t that delightful?

You’re still glued to this screen. Good. The longer you keep this page open, the longer the trace program I’ve written into the code has to find you. In fact, I think by now I’ve probably got your house number. And by the time you’ve read that last sentence I’ve smashed the glass on the back door and now, now you should be feeling an approaching feeling of doom because you can’t stop reading even though every word, every letter you read is simply a wasted second, a second you could be using to climb through that window to your left or barricading your door but instead you’ve still got those fucking noise cancelling headphones in and you’re reading black text on a white background and your parents oil the hinges and now I’m reading as you’re reading and that last bit of animal in you, the part of your brain that’s always alert, is screaming at you now that there is something behind you, something dark and terrible and sharp -

Remember the pantomime?

He’s behind you!

Oh yes he is.

Look round.

Dare you.