At 6:04 this morning, I was woken up by a loud bang. I shot straight up and then was paralyzed with fear for a solid minute. I could move my eyes, so I looked at Deuce to make sure he had heard the noise too, and his ears were sticking straight up, like a Chihuahua’s.
While my body was trying to summon the power to react to the robber I was certain was in my home, my mind was racing. Who’s in my house? Do I have any weapons in here? Maybe a high heel… Oh God, I’m going to die!
After a minute of silence, I concluded that a) the burglar was waiting to see if anyone noticed that he had apparently knocked over the pile of dirty dishes in the sink or b) that I had imagined the whole thing.
Deciding that Deuce and I had not both dreamed about a crash that made our ears perk up, I finally gathered the courage to slowly and silently crawl out of bed.
I tiptoed to the door, carefully opened it, and let Deuce go out ahead of me. He will bark his fool head off at my brother’s car pulling into the driveway, so I knew he’d let me know if a prowler were lurking about.
Deuce trotted down the hall and turned into the living room with no more noise than his much-too-long nails clicking on the wood floor. I took this as a good sign and ventured out of my room.
I flipped on the hall light and surveyed my tiny living room. Other than the remotes strewn across the couch, nothing appeared out of place.
By this time, Deuce had made it to the back door, so I followed him, whipping my head around every three seconds to make sure this light-footed murderer wasn’t creeping up behind me with an axe.
I made it to the back door without incident. I peered out the blinds and saw nothing amiss. So I went back to the front of the house and looked out the front windows, thinking maybe it was just a slamming car door that had roused me from slumber. Not unless the car was IN YOUR HOUSE, my subconscious screamed at me.
Finding no strange cars or people emerging from strange cars, I concluded that my subconscious was correct. There was only one possible answer:
The killer had somehow slipped around me and was in my room, waiting for me. He anticipated that I would figure I had dreamed up the horrific crash and slip unsuspectingly back into bed. Then he'd emerge from under it, wielding the axe I knew he carried.
Okay, bad guy. I'm one step ahead of you, I thought. I crept back to the kitchen, heart beating so fast I might as well have run a mile, and grabbed my butcher knife. Ashley don’t play.
Moving as lightly on my feet as the man waiting to end my life had, I made my way back to my room. I flipped on the light, went to the edge of the bed, and threw the covers up, knife poised.
No killer.
Great, he’s in the shower, where all the bad guys hide, I thought. Figuring my knife was as good a defense against his axe as I was going to get, I walked the five feet to the bathroom, counted to three (silently, of course; no way was I going to let him know I knew his hiding spot), and flung the curtain back.
And then I saw it.
The horrific bang was a result of my shower caddy coming un-suctioned from the shower wall, causing my shower gel, shampoo, and conditioner to fall into the bathtub with a crash that sent me on a three-minute search for an axe-brandishing assassin.
That better be the closest I ever come to a serial killer.
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