The house was nearly silent, but for the sound of pen scratching paper. If one was to look around the house, one would find reams of loose-leaf with tiny, cramped writing, with horrible descriptions and obsessive words. On the wall in the office, where she was sitting in the light of a single candle, the word "revenge" had been carved into the plaster. She wrote endlessly, without pause. The candle that had started as a full taper was in the last moments of life. The scratching continued even as the flame sputtered and coughed its way out of existence, leaving the pen to be illuminated by the light of a sliver of moon, but the hand still did not stop.
Even a large crash and the call of "FBI" did not stop the frenzied ink from being drawn. Thunderous footsteps travelled throughout the house, culminating in the corner room, the only one with an occupant. When the cuffs were applied, the young woman turned to the people in her house.
"I saved them, I did! They could have been killed. Those men deserve what I did to them! They are the scum of the earth! They didn't deserve to breathe! They-"
Intruders came and went, and eventually the house was refurbished and painted, and a young couple moved in, never truly realising the horror that had been planned within its walls. The young wife painted the corner room a sunny yellow, and as her stomach grew, filled it with things of happiness.
Where there had once been anger and hurt, now the house harboured only hope.