I know you are here.
Yes, I can hear quite plainly tonight, your keystrokes echoing off the walls of my silent house. I have sought for a long time now to hunt down the vandal who has cruelly rewritten all my favorite books. Yes, I have suspected for some time that those are no mice that make the scratching noises that keep me awake at night; no, I know well the sound of pencil on paper. You think me too old to know your marginalia from my own; to notice when you change a comma, a hyphen, a word here, a sentence there; when you pluck out full subplots from one book and transplant them into another.
Perhaps you have grown complacent; only a few years ago, you would never have left behind swapped book covers and misplaced books for me to find in the mornings; never been careless enough to forget to copy my dog-ears and replace my bookmarks after you were through desecrating my books.
And I, I have patiently tracked your every move, and kept logs of all the evidence. I have even learnt to recognize your subtle impressions on the scents of my library.
And now, finally, you have gone too far.
At long last, I have cornered you.
You will not continue your sacrilege.
You shall not escape me this time.
Your days of terrorizing me are at an end.