The Beginning - The Emptiness Of I part 2

In every town, there is a place which is always totally abandoned. Usually, it's a derelict house. The one in my town is right beside the school. It's a popular place for waggers, but no one goes inside. I don't know if anything bad happened there, of if it's empty just because, but it is always empty.
There are times when my fascination with fear and paranoia go too far. This was one of them. I should have learnt by now not to mess with things like this, but I couldn't help myself. So, on one stereotypically moonlit night, I broke in. The back window, the one facing away from the road was my entry point. The floor was covered in plaster dust, but otherwise the house seemed fine. Just unused. Unused and empty.
I climbed in the window, and walked across the room to open the door. The door opened cleanly into what seemed to be the hallway. The walls were bare and the wooden floor was again covered in a fine layer of plaster dust. My footfalls sent up little clouds of white powder as I walked. I treaded down the hallway, around the corner, and up a flight of stairs. I was getting kind of self-conscious about the footprints I was leaving behind, but I'd always wanted to come here. I would look around, then leave. No harm done.
Reaching the top of the stairs, I looked about. There was a landing, with two doors on either side. Heading left, I tried to open the door. Strangely, it was locked. Perhaps not locked, but it wouldn't budge, and the doorknob wouldn't turn. Locked, or jammed. Either way, I gave up on trying to open it, and tried the door at the other end of the landing. This one opened fine, and led to a large room with a huge window looking out to the school. I stood by the window, looking out, when I heard a rustle back by the stairs. Curious, I went back to check what it was. I couldn't figure out what had made the noise, so I decided to check the other room again.
I froze. There, on the floor, in the dust, was another set of footprints. Not mine, another set. They came from the room, and went down the stairs. Following them, I descended. They turned a corner at the bottom, and disappeared. Just stopped. Paranoid, I headed back up the stairs to the locked room. Trying the doorknob again, this time it yielded.
Suprised, I pushed open the door, and cautiously walked into the room. An old, neglected mattress was lying on the floor. From what I could tell, it was stained with blood.
Freaked out, it was then that I decided to leave. Quickly. Spinning around, I took a step forward, and froze once more.
For there She was. The being that would forever torture me. She looked so menacing, and yet so innocent. Short, young, but with an expression on Her face that wasn't human. Blood was dripping from Her fingers, from the ends of Her terrible, long nails. She looked up.
Her eyes are the most haunting things I have ever seen. I will never be able to get that image out of my head. Her piercing glare, threatening, pure evil.
That was how I discovered Her. Or perhaps, She discovered me. Ever since, She has stayed with me. A horrifying, torturing presence.
The pain I have suffered at Her hands. . . immeasurable.
The sorrow She has caused. . . unbearable.
Her very presence is intolerable.
The sight of Her causes pain in the anticipation of itself.
She will never leave.

Clocks

It's silent. As it should be at this time of night. The only sound in the house is the ticking of the clock on the wall. You enjoy it at times like this. It's peaceful; the silence. The best time to think, and record your thoughts. The pad of refill beside your bed gets plenty of use.
Tick, tock, tick, tock.
It's rhythmic, the clock. Soothing, relaxing. As if everything is going right.
It's times like this when your insomnia doesn't matter. You think best at this time of night, when there's no interruptions. Apart from the occasional moments of paranoia, it's perfect. And that's all they are. Paranoia. Senseless paranoia. No reason for it, apart from your imagination. It's your imagination that's turning those night-time noises and shadows into something sinister. The footsteps are clearly just one of your pets, or the groans of the old house. The scratching and tapping at your window is just a tree. The shadows in the corner, just your brain trying to make something out of nothing.
Paranoia. Paranoia and imagination. That's all it is. But then, what's making that sighing noise? The wind? Probably. At least the ticking of the clock is familiar, regular. There's no mistaking that for something else. Unless it's the slow tapping of impatient claws, or fingernails. . .
Damn your imagination. Overcome with a sudden feeling of paranoia, you just have to get up and confirm that your fears are unfounded. Using your phone as a torch, you swing your legs out of bed. The clock is just outside your bedroom door. The ticking (tapping?) is coming from the other side of your door. You sigh. Safe then. But you know that you won't be able to sleep until you're sure.
Opening your door, you look around nervously. You glance at the clock. Strange, the ticking doesn't seem to be coming from the clock. You check the time. 3.03, the clock says. You decide to get a glass of water.
Suddenly, you get a message.
"Hey, you up?"
A mate. Just a mate. Nothing sinister. But, something on your phone catches your eye. The time on there says 3.43. That's weird. You glance back at the clock. Something doesn't seem right. It's not moving. But the ticking continues.
In fear, you rush back to your room, all thoughts of water gone, and back under the covers. You're too panicky to notice that the tapping has stopped.
You hear a sigh, what you thought was the wind before. It's by the door.
You can't move.
Whatever it is has you paralysed, at it's mercy. There's nothing you can do. It sighs again, closer, and you can smell it's rancid breath.
You feel something on your leg. Sudden, unbearable pain follows. The pressure moves up your thigh, and the pain follows. It's as if your very flesh was rotting away. It reaches your stomach. If you could move, you would've screamed, doubled up in pain. It's terrible.
Your lungs collapse. You can't breathe. Then, suddenly, it's gone. The pain, it's gone. It fades. But, so does everything else. It's over. You're gone. Slowly, but surely, you die.
And slowly, but surely, the tapping starts again.