Do not faint.

Standing on her tiptoes, Beth reached for the top shelf and grabbed the shoebox with her fingertips and pried it open.  It contained a box of bullets but the .38 was gone.  She noticed other boxes on the floor at her feet—he’d been rummaging while she was downstairs.

The footsteps stopped.

The house was silent.

A wave of trembles swept through her, sapping the strength from her legs, forcing her to the floor.  The thought of her children stood her up again and she walked to the doorway of her bedroom and peered down the hall.

It was empty now.

“I’ve called nine-one-one on my cell phone!” she yelled.  “And I’m holding a shotgun and I’m not afraid to use it!”

“Mom?” Jenna called out.

“Jenna!” Beth screamed.

In a knee-length flannel nightgown her daughter stepped from her bedroom into the hallway.  Jenna was taller than Beth now, prettier.  She’d inherited her daddy’s good looks and athleticism, missed her mother’s plainness.

“Why are you yelling, Mom?”

“Get back in your room and lock the door!”

“What’s wrong?”

“Now, goddammit!”

Jenna ran crying into her room and slammed the door.

“I don’t want to shoot you but I will,” Beth hollered at the darkness.

“How can you shoot me when I have your gun?” a calm masculine voice inquired.

The shadow emerged from the playroom and walked toward her.

Beth flicked the light switch on the wall.

The hallway lit up, burning her eyes and flooding the shadow with color and texture.

The man who approached her had long black hair, a face whiter than a china doll, and smiling red lips.  He tracked bootprints of blood across her hardwood floor.  It speckled his face, darkened his jeans and long-sleeved black T-shirt.

Beth sank down onto the floor, immobilized with terror.

Luther came and stood over her, said, “I haven’t hurt your children and I won’t long as you’re compliant.”

Beth saw the ivory hilted knife in his right hand.  It had seen use tonight.

Jenna’s door opened.  The young girl poked her head out.

“I’m all right, baby,” Beth said, her voice breaking.  “Stay in your room.”

Luther turned and gazed at the teenager.

“Obey your mother.”

“Why are you doing this?” Jenna cried.

“Get in your room!” Beth yelled.

“What is happening?”

“Get in your room!”

Jenna’s door slammed and locked.

When Beth looked back up at the intruder she saw he’d traded his knife for a blackjack.

“Turn around,” he said.  “I need to see the back of your head.”

“Why?”

“I’m going to hit you with this and I’d rather it didn’t smash your face.”

“Don’t you touch my children.”

“Turn your head.”

“Swear to me you won’t hurt—”

Luther seized her by the hair and whacked the back of her skull.

14