First Practise Piece of Horror Writing

It was a full moon that night when I walked out of the house. Pacing myself, I slowly made my way
towards the garden shed. The rusted walls glistened under the moonlight, the trees’ shadows
dancing grotesquely. As I pushed the door open, I found what I needed. Delicately placed on the
desk, I snatched it off and proceeded back into the house. Marching confidently yet anxiously,
shaking vigorously while stiff, I pressed the doors to the house back open. I made my way into the
kitchen; this was where he last was. Where was he now, had he run like a coward, or had he found
what he needed? But then I saw him. Hunched over the bunch over grapes, looking desperately for
something worth of value. What good would he find in a depressed old mans house? Knife in one
hand, I made my way closer to him, ready to strike. I must have been too loud, as the man span
around instantaneously, his pupils that acted as a void, that lured me in, until something smashed
against my head. I stumbled back, my hand feeling free, with a sharp pain my forehead bringing me
down. I crashed onto the kitchen floor, when I felt, “knife goes into body, man falls on ground, the
guy who was in the house runs away, he sees a black cat, night night sleep sleep, he basically dies,
but survives, then on the news he finds out the guy got away and”

The only thing they could find was a red cardigan with a missing button.