There was once a house that stood differently on a village, near the creek, covered in dust and cobwebs.

It
exalted a sight that was not so inviting. The broken windows and the smoke from its chimney drove people
away. An old man lived there, grumpy, worn-out, out of touch, with glaring vulture eyes that isolated him away
from the rest of the crowd. Streets go empty when he passes by as if he was a thunder about to strike anyone.
His bulging vulture eyes were a nightmare to every child and a threat to everyone in the village.

People were scared of the old man but exactly more than anybody else, one young man was so terrified of
him, so terrified that terror could suck the very breath from his lungs just thinking of the old man’s sinister eyes.
He often gets dreadful dreams that the old man was going to kill him one night, uninvited under his bed like a
demon waiting for him to fall asleep. He believed his dreams obsessively; he believed he was going to be killed
sooner or later so he made a chilling plan, one way or another he made sure he was going to get him first.
“Before he even gets to cut my throat, I will cut his” the young man said.

One bleak Friday night, the young man waited for the clock to hit 12 midnight, covered in sweat, he went
downstairs. The fear had eaten him already; he knew he was so consumed by terror when he never hesitated
to grab the knife in their kitchen despite his hands shaking fervently.

He went out to fulfil the chase; the rush he felt inside him was so overpowering that he failed to mind the
complete darkness in the haunted road leading to the creek where the old man lives. To his surprise the door
suddenly creaked open, as he saw the stairs leading to the old man’s room, he felt a magnetic presence that
pulled him towards it as if he was an expected guest. There were gaps in the floorboards, rag sheets on the
floor, a foul smell and dishes left unwashed. He led himself upstairs, he was scared to death and there he saw
the old man tightly asleep in his worn-out clothes. He knew the time has come, he grabbed a pillow in the bed
and at that very moment, fear became a tangible living force that crept over him like some hungry beast,
immobilizing his tendencies. As the young man was about to lay his rushing hands on the prospect, the old
man awaken into consciousness and before he could even catch his next breath, the young man smothered
his pale face with the pillow as he was stabbed endlessly in his chest, through his bones, through the deepest
core of his wildest fears. As he was slaughtered to death, the old man forced his last blink of life into a loud
scream of begging, a helpless cry of an innocent old man who only had vulture eyes. It was all what he could
afford, he wanted to ask what he did wrong as his pulse and heartbeat was descending and deteriorating. The
struggle stopped, the bed stopped from moving, there were no more blood left to tore. The young man on his
crimson hands felt weary, but he knew he was safe now, at last the nightmares will go away, “at last” he said,
but did he really said “at last” to culminate a festive success? Or was it to deny his guilt?

The feeling was vague for the young man; it was so ambiguous that it was out of his control to totally decipher
it. Paranoid and uncertain, he went downstairs and finally chose to end the spree, as he led his shaking self
out the door, blue and red lights struck his eyes. Policemen were there waiting for him to bring himself in, they
knew, the helpless scream reached the neighbourhood. The young man knew it was the end of it. It was over.
He led his grasp into the handcuffs and while he let himself soak in to his self-built tragedy, he asked himself;
Was the old man really evil? Or was it I from the beginning?