Old MacDonald had a murderous grudge

I wasn't slaughtered the other night but the situation has hardly improved.  The whole affair has sent me into a state of perpetual tension, and I keep swinging between hysterical excitement and a morbid fear for my life.

The stalker's car has not reappeared, nor any corporeal sign of him, but today there was a noise in the hall.  It was about five seconds of a nursery rhyme, I can't remember which one exactly because I was so taken aback, but I think it might've been Old MacDonald Had a Farm.  The noise was reminiscent of a doorbell, but I would not be caught dead with such a ridiculous doorbell and there was nobody on the step who could've rung it anyway.  I am positive it came from inside the house, but I searched high and low and failed to find any device that could possibly have made such a sound.  I didn't even find an intruder lurking with a machete in the larder primed and ready to cleave my head from my shoulders.

Needless to say, I am a nervous wreck.  I can hardly leave the window, and every passing shadow makes my heart go spasming around my ribcage.  The gin has had to come out, and my quivering hands keep shaking it out over the carpet.  Even going into the back garden for a cigarette has become a mammoth task of infinite courage, but it is the only thing providing any comfort now.  I feel certain someone is toying with me, and if it is their plan to bring me to the brink of insanity then they are doing a stirling job.

The only other possible explanation is that the house is haunted.  This does not make me feel any better.  Every time I get sleep paralysis I convince myself that a demon is about to pop out of the wardrobe, and while I have not yet been spirited away to the Netherworld, I fear it may only be a matter of time.

I don't want to be dragged to Hell.  I'm Catholic.  I've earned Purgatory at worst.

With a stab-stab here and a stab-stab there.
Here a stab.
There a stab.
Everywhere a stab-stab.