Vincent van Gogh Field with Poppies

Perhaps screaming wouldn't be such a bad idea after all. . . .
The window imploded. For an instant Keli saw, framed against a hell of blue and purple flames, a hooded figure crouched on the back of the largest horse she had ever seen.
There was someone standing by the bed, with a knife half raised.
In slow motion, she watched fascinated as the arm went up and the horse galloped at glacier speed across the floor. Now pleading into their voice was either genuine or such a good actor they wouldn't have to bother with assassination for a living. She said, 'Who are you?'
'I don't know if I'm allowed to tell you,' said the voice. 'You are still alive, aren't you?'
She bit down the sarcastic reply just in time. Something about the tone of the question worried her.
'Can't you tell?' she said.
'It's not easy. . . .' There was a pause. She strained to see in the darkness,the knife was above her, starting its descent, and the horse was rearing and the rider was standing in the stirrups and swinging some sort of weapon and its blade tore through the slow air with a noise like a finger on the rim of a wet glass —The light vanished. There was a soft thump on the floor, followed by a metallic clatter.Keli took a deep breath.A hand was briefly laid across her mouth and a worried voice said, 'If you scream, I'll regret it. Please? I'm in enough trouble as it is.'Anyone who could get that amount of bewildered