Some fiction writing..

I have not written in years, but for some reason tonight I got the bug to do so. Here goes.. I am at a complete loss as to where to go with it now :)

She was exhausted from a full day's work and a half-hour drive home. She wearily signaled for her turn, applied the brakes, and finally turned her Jeep down the long dirt driveway. It would feel so good to get these sensible shoes off and relax, she was thinking.
Not one to be civilized anf cubically contained by nature, it almost pained her to look into the rearview mirror and admit that she was in an office job. And succeeding at it. She was already a supervisor of her team at the collections agency, and a shot at supervisor was not far off. A job that she never would have guessed at when she was younger, it offered her something that her previous menial jobs had not; full time, benefits, a stable work week and the chance to sit in a chair for most of the day.
At any rate, she was tired. This past week had been their end-of-month rush, and as always, her team had surpassed the others and pu hem to shame. It would be almost comical to go up and accept their trophy, a large foam finger in the style of those oversized ones worn at football games, that had TOP GUN emblazoned in the agency's colors, yellow, on purple. She had a permanent spot for it at her oversized desk, it seemed, in between the plaques that she herself had earned as top collector over the years.
Finally, as her wheels hit home turf, she breathed a sigh of relief. The drive home had been a strain, being held in check by a bubbly Jeep Liberty. Her CJ-7 was far more rugged, and in her opinion, a "real Jeep." These cushy soccer-mom vans were not her idea of roughing it, no more than staying at a posh hotel related to camping around a fire overnight. Going forty in a 55-mph zone had just about fried her last nerves if she ever had any left after today's frantic closeout.
She pulled around to the side of the farmhouse that did not face the road. She much preferred parking back here; you could not see her little vehicle from up at the road. In this way, she figured, people passing by could not tell if she were home or not. She heartily disliked the idea of someone knowing her whereabouts, and she knew that the woman a half-mile down the road was nosy, and had a weird older son that still lived wih her that gave her the creeps. He was always sloppily dressed and reeking of cow manure from their farm. Not that she had anything against farmers; her own family was peppered with them, and quite honestly, she admired them for their diligence and connection with the earth. But this guy just rubbed her the wrong way, and to even think that he knew she was home (he could see the house from theirs if he had out his omnipresent binoculars) was too much.
She swung her feet out of the Jeep, and hopped to the ground. It had a lift kit on it, which made her descent a little longer, but gave her a secure feeling when going offroad with her fiancee on the weekends.
The horses trotted over to the gate of their pasture, eager for their evening grain. In the dusk, she could see one of them plainly; Dart, the gelding, was mostly white pinto. His "sister" Sassy, was a darker chestnut, and appeared as a shadow behind him. She could hear their halter rings clinking, and Dart's familiar whickering that signalled he was hungry. Wearily, before even looking at the house, she slipped into the barn to fix their grain bowls.
Flicking on the barn light just inside the door, she suddenly got a creepy feeling. Like being watched, it was. She had her cell phone in her right butt pocket of her jeans, but still the hairs on her neck rose. By reflex, she looked at it; one new text message. It was her fiancee, saying that he would be lucky if he got done working by midnigt. It was only nine-thirty, and she sighed. She also had a good case of the willies. It was plain to her how simple it would be for some sleazebag guy to time her home arival and be here waiting in the dark for her. She shook her head though; she was a rational career woman and a born nature girl in one. If any bastard wanted a piece of her, let him come up and get his ass whooped. Her hand caressed the butt of the little Beretta pistol in its holster behind her beltline. It was forbidden at work, but she had a permit, and no one ever noticed it under her baggy sweaters atop skintight jeans. It was a great way to hide a little belly bulge, though her body was mostly lithe. The belly had been like that since her miscarriage..
She went over to the plastic garbage can that served as a horse-proof grain bin. Grabbing the scoop from within, she neatly scooped each horse's ration into its large rubber bowl. A tad extra for Dart, who tended to get thin as he was more worrisome, but was also the dominant horse, and would not let his sister get his share. Sassy was a beast of a fat mare and did not need any extra calories, bu she gave her a share of grain to be nice.
She took the bowls out the short distance to the gate, placed one at either side in the pasture, and watched her babies munch. She was so proud of these horses; both had been auction cases, bound for the horsey meat plants where old and unwanted critters saw their final days before being sent off to slaughter for human consumption. Sassy's hooves had been horrific; she had been grossly neglected. And Dart had been a bag of bones, was so wild that no people could even get close enough to halter him, and he had been prodded (none too gently) into the auction ring. Two hundred dollars had been his price; it was less than one-tenth of the bonus check for that month that she had brought home, the poor thing. Now, both horses gleamed with health, and a child of fou years could approach either one and lead them on a string.
Satisfied with the water level in their trough, she folded her arms and made her way to the back doo of the farmhouse. Another lonely night; she mused. Her fiancee was a self-employed tattoo artist, and especially on weekends, he was out late. A home arrival time of 3AM wuold not be unusual for him on this or any night, really. But he was doing what he loved, and raking in more money than she was even making; so it was fine. They had their Sundays together, and usually that was fine; but some nighs, she just wished he was there to hold her, even if they were both peniless and living in a shotgun shack instead of on this sprawling 400-acre farm in western NY.
One of the barn cats nearly sent her heart into an attack by brushing her ankles. She lightly kicked the overzealous cat away and went for her keys. As she went to grab the knob in the pitch-black mudroom, though, something felt Wrong. She froze, her hand an inch away from the gold knob. She could no smell anything odd. She did not even see anything strange. Something was just Wrong.
A light burned inside of the house, and she could see through the window. It was HIM! The creepy neighbor guy. She could not even think of his name. He was revolting, moreso now in HER kitchen. He was crouched over looking like a cat about to pounce, facing the living-room fromt door. He had a huge kitchen knife in his hand that was from the set that she had gotten earlier that month at ber bridal shower.
Oh my god! She quickly went from frightened to completely pi**ed. But her heart nearly stopped when she saw what else he had in his hand: a thick length of rope.
So he planned to kill her?! This was insane. For a moment she had to grip the metal railing just to make herself not pass out. He was so revolting; she could see a thin line of drool slipping out of his fat, chapped lips. Though he was about ten feet away, every detail in his countenance seemed to scream out at her. His tattered plaid shirt and ripped, oily jeans. The ugly bags under his eyes on his fat face. The spattering of thin black hair that barely covered his balding pate. He was nearly panting like a dog, in a position so that if she Had come in by the front door, he would be completely hidden until she entered the kitchen; at which point, he would jump out and do God knew what.
But.. she had the upper hand now. What to do? Call the bumbling local town cops and wait an hour for them to get over to the farm, and petrify him as they blared down the driveway so that he turned tail and ran and she looked like a stupid homebody wife afraid of a mouse noise?
She looked down for a second..
And looked up. He was gone. As if he had just vanished into thin air. In reality, in the short seconds that she had looked down at her gun, he had booked for the front door. He had locked it just as it would have been before he walked in.. she still did not know how he had gotten in, but right now she was just aghast. What the hell.. now what? Go in and go about her nightly routine as if this never happened? As if her creepy neighbor had not been crouched down in her kitchen,with a flippin' rope and knife?
She whirled around and shot herself out the mudroom door. It was now pitch-black out.. she saw no signs of motion anywhere. So now what; he was not only creepy, but also a frigging magician? The horses were still at their grain, but harder to see now in the full dark with no moon.