AUTHOR'S NOTES: Been trying to write a short ficlet for "Secret Window" based around Peter Gabriel's song "Intruder" for a couple of months now. I started writing it out at college, and went through different versions, but I've gone back to the original propercision of the one shot.

DISCLAIMER: Secret Window, Secret Garden belongs to Stephen King within the Four Past Midnight series. David Koepp & Johnny Depp own the writes to the film version released in 2004. The song Intruder by Peter Gabriel is found in the third solo album under the name Peter Gabriel or Melt. Released in 1980.


I know something about, opening windows and doors;

I know how to move quietly, to creep across creaky wooden floors;

Morton Rainey constantly covered his ears as his body tossed and turned beneath the tattered bed covers. The summer months created unbearable heat within the walls of his secluded cabin – but no, this wasn't it. His breathing was labored; he could hear repetitive noise, monstrous noise of the creaking of the floorboards, things moving about in the night.

A one renowned author kept his eyes shut tight, to avoid seeing what was within the cabin, as things tapped against the window. The branches of the trees which stood proudly outside were being scraped against the glass from the wind that blew.

The creaking of the floorboards progressed into gentle whispers; hissing and spitting. Rainey groaned, gritting his teeth in the midst of his subconscious, attempting to blank out the insanity of the intrusion.

I know where to find precious things, in all your cupboards and drawers…

Brown eyes opened wide, the size of saucers behind the crooked reading glasses, at the sound of glass smashing somewhere downstairs. Crap, he wasn't dreaming! He stiffly sat up, and curled his legs over the side of his bed, but Morton stopped himself there.

This had been going on for too long, ever since he moved here – ever since, she, his wife cheated on him, he was bombarded with the oddest unordinary behaviour of his house. What was going on? What did these things, creatures want from him? …If they existed at all?

Feeling around in the dark, he covered his worn clothing with his dressing gown and determining searched for a weapon. He had a bat somewhere, he recalled using it the first time this occurred – he broke his shower door and bathroom mirror with it.

The author's hands grabbing hold of something wooden, he'd succeeded in finding his baseball bat and stood up unsteadily in the dark. Perhaps he could call someone? His lawyer? The sheriff? For all the man could fathom, it was Amy who was fucking with him. Sneaking into their old holiday home and screwing with his head!

John Shooter? He stopped dead in his tracks, like hell he was going to think about the lunatic at this time of night. Yes, he found the crazy Southerner's hat in his kitchen once or twice, but never had he found broken glasses or cups.

Slipping the clippers;

Slipping the clippers through the telephone wires;

The sense of isolation inspires;

Inspires me…

Holding the bat close to him, as he helplessly looked around in the darkened family room of the cabin, he cursed and grumbled as his fingers slipped and aimed poorly at the numbers on the phone.

'Come on, come on!'

The creaking of the wooden floorboards caught his attention again, and it was closer as it ever was before. Mort stifled a gasp and a gulp as he kept his mouth shut, getting hold of the phone properly. He listened to the dial-up and just as he heard someone pick up, there was a loud hiss.

'Hello? Hello?' he pleaded, his voice's tone growing louder, but was interrupted by a low rumble of thunder and distant lightening. The writer growled and threw the phone done in frustration – stupid summer storm.

A light brush of something touching his shoulder made him jump as he moved away, partially tripping on the coffee table, landing on the sofa. He held the bat at the ready, hands stroking the chipped wood, like it was his own insecurity trying to assure itself something real was there in his grasp.

I feel the suspense when I'm certain you know I am there;

I like you lying awake, your baited breath in the air;

I like the touch and the smell of all the pretty dresses you wear…

Who or what the hell was that? The man squirmed into an uncomfortable position on the sofa, head turning frantically to get a glimpse of whoever brushed him. Deep down in his mind, he tried to reason the sensation of something passing him. It was the wind, or a small breeze creeping through a small crack through the door.

No, it couldn't have been; Mort knew it felt like a person. It was heavy enough to reflect the weight of a small man…woman? Amy…his voice hissed in anger. He knew it, his wife was in here. Did Ted put her up to this? Inhaling and exhaling deeply, Morton Rainey found the courage to speak up.

'Amy? I know you're in here!'

A tiny chuckle, as dainty and distant as the voice he experienced as he tried to sleep echoed around him. The gender of the little amused sound was undetectable. The writer jumped in surprise, and hurriedly stood up, holding the bat in front of him.

'I'm warning you Amy, don't fuck with me!'

Intruders happy in the dark.

Hair of dark brown and gold covered his eyes slightly, so it was hard to see where he was going. The sound of quiet footsteps were getting worse, they were…they were everywhere, the whispers. His heart was racing; pounding against his chest as he listened closely – straining to find the source of it.

'Amy?' he whispered uncertainly.

Intruder come

Intruder come to me, and leave his mark…

Something caught his ankle, or what felt like it, and he yelped and fell backwards, tripping over small things that lay around the floor. The bat dropped and hit the floor with a gentle thud, as the writer was left wide eyed, breathing uncontrollably hard.

He could feel he was against the wall and hurriedly felt around for the light switch.

Leave his mark.

Ah! Rainey's mind gasped in delight as he found it and switched on the main light, only to have his eyes widen and the colour leave his flesh. His jaw dropped as he starred into the direction of the room corner.

Blood covered the walls, and writing scratched into the wood made his stomach churn. He could smell the death was fresh, and he had to cover his nose; his throat making gagging noises.

The floorboard creaked again, and something was being dragged across the floor; he laboriously turned his head to the figures, and one was staring at him intently. Mort felt his chest tighten and struggled cry escape him as he realised the person who stood before him, covered in blood.

Mort Rainey was looking upon himself, holding the hands of his wife and her lover's dead hands within his own, covered in their blood.

I am the intruder.