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Description
She finished brushing her teeth, then looked in the mirror, taking a deep breath. She was nervous. Of course, she had every right to be. This was her first night in the new apartment, which admittedly wasn't in the friendliest part of town. She'd called around to various friends and relatives, but none were available: she would be alone tonight.

She'd contemplated calling the police, asking for a patrol car to make a couple of rounds during the night. She'd decided against it: they had better things to do, and she could take care of herself. She picked up the 9mm handgun that her brother had given her when she moved out, feeling reassured by its weight in her hand. She hid it in the bathroom cabinet, then went to bed.

- - -

She woke up at 3:00 a.m. to a splitting headache and a dry throat. She groaned, sitting up in bed. She hadn't expected to sleep well on this first night but this...this was abnormal.

Just then, she noticed something else abnormal. The air in her room smelled different, had a chemical tang to it. It smelled vaguely familiar, but she just couldn't place it. She gave up eventually, getting out of bed to get some water.

She was halfway down the hall when she remembered. She'd once had a horrible cough as a child, one that was seemingly immune to normal cough syrups. The doctor had recommended using a vaporizer when she went to bed. The medicine had worked, but it had also drugged her, knocked her out like a light.

Someone had tried to drug her again.

She froze, suddenly paranoid. Every sound was suddenly amplified tenfold, and she listened, trying to hear any clue as to someone else's presence in the house.

She heard nothing.

She continued down the hall toward the kitchen, keeping as silent as possible. In her paranoid, sleep-deprived mind, she couldn't help but remember an article she'd read in a magazine. Agatha Christie, the horror novelist, had been talking to her fans about this very situation. She'd asked them to think of the scariest sound they could think of if they thought someone was in the house. This eluded her memory just as the smell had, and she tried to put it out of her mind.

She'd made it to the end of the hall. She checked the door: it was still locked. Letting out her pent up breath, she shook her head. They'd always said she had an over-active imagination.

She proceeded into the kitchen, pouring herself a cold drink from the tap. She was about to take a sip when she remembered which sound Christie had chosen.

Across the hall, the toilet flushed.

Description
She finished brushing her teeth, then looked in the mirror, taking a deep breath. She was nervous. Of course, she had every right to be. This was her first night in the new apartment, which admittedly wasn't in the friendliest part of town. She'd called around to various friends and relatives, but none were available: she would be alone tonight.

She'd contemplated calling the police, asking for a patrol car to make a couple of rounds during the night. She'd decided against it: they had better things to do, and she could take care of herself. She picked up the 9mm handgun that her brother had given her when she moved out, feeling reassured by its weight in her hand. She hid it in the bathroom cabinet, then went to bed.

- - -

She woke up at 3:00 a.m. to a splitting headache and a dry throat. She groaned, sitting up in bed. She hadn't expected to sleep well on this first night but this...this was abnormal.

Just then, she noticed something else abnormal. The air in her room smelled different, had a chemical tang to it. It smelled vaguely familiar, but she just couldn't place it. She gave up eventually, getting out of bed to get some water.

She was halfway down the hall when she remembered. She'd once had a horrible cough as a child, one that was seemingly immune to normal cough syrups. The doctor had recommended using a vaporizer when she went to bed. The medicine had worked, but it had also drugged her, knocked her out like a light.

Someone had tried to drug her again.

She froze, suddenly paranoid. Every sound was suddenly amplified tenfold, and she listened, trying to hear any clue as to someone else's presence in the house.

She heard nothing.

She continued down the hall toward the kitchen, keeping as silent as possible. In her paranoid, sleep-deprived mind, she couldn't help but remember an article she'd read in a magazine. Agatha Christie, the horror novelist, had been talking to her fans about this very situation. She'd asked them to think of the scariest sound they could think of if they thought someone was in the house. This eluded her memory just as the smell had, and she tried to put it out of her mind.

She'd made it to the end of the hall. She checked the door: it was still locked. Letting out her pent up breath, she shook her head. They'd always said she had an over-active imagination.

She proceeded into the kitchen, pouring herself a cold drink from the tap. She was about to take a sip when she remembered which sound Christie had chosen.

Across the hall, the toilet flushed.