Tears blurred her vision and she tried to shove the thoughts from her head. It was easier during the day. She could busy herself and pretend it wasn’t always right there. At night when she was alone, it all crashed in on her.

She needed a hobby. Maybe she could take up electrician training since her damn stove didn’t seem to work. She turned the dial to get the burner heating up but got nothing. No heat at all coming from those old-school coils. She held her hand over it. Cold as ice even though the little red light had come on signaling the stove was on.

There was no microwave. Nope. That was apparently far too technologically advanced for this household. If she wanted to boil water, she would have to build a fire.

That was when she heard it. It was a faint sound coming from her left, from the back door, with its pretty window that let the light in and its yellow curtains that framed it. At first she thought it was nothing more than the wind. But there wasn’t any wind.

It struck her suddenly that the same window that let in the early morning light was about an arm’s length from the lock on the door. If someone wanted to, they could break the glass and get the door open.

She went still. She hadn’t heard anything. Not really. She’d had a bad dream and hadn’t gotten completely out of that fight-or-flight response fear compelled. It was nothing more than a trick of her mind.

Then the lights went out.

Definitely. She was definitely learning how to fix her electricity. Her heart started to pound, adrenaline, left over from the dream she’d been having, reignited in her system.

It was okay. There was nothing out there. She was alone and despite the ramshackle nature of the house, the doors were secure.

Scratch. Scratch.

She shrank back and stared at the door. It rattled slightly.

Definitely not the wind.

Fear shot through her and she scrambled for the phone. There was a landline in the kitchen. She hadn’t used a damn landline in years, but Lisa had insisted because cell phone service could be spotty.

Scratch. Scratch.

Who scratched at a door? There weren’t any trees close enough to explain that noise. Or the breathing sounds.

Something was at her door. She didn’t have a gun. Didn’t own a gun.

She should own a gun.

The door rattled again and she bit back a scream. Maybe if she hadn’t had the dream again she could have reacted with some kind of calm, but panic was threatening to take over. She could hear that man yelling, see her friend’s eyes as the light left them, knowing she was next.