up and grabbed the string hanging from the lightbulb. The nice man closed the curtains. In an instant, the world went black.
The door opened at the top of the stairs.
The kitchen light poured into the basement. Christopher crawled like a mouse and hid under the staircase.
The hissing lady walked down the stairs.
Creak. Creak. Creak.
Christopher’s heart pounded. There was nowhere to run.
He watched her bloody shoes through the slits in the wooden stairs.
Creak. Creak. Creak.
Christopher held his breath. The blood pounded his temples. The hissing lady’s feet came right to eye level. He reached through the slits and braced himself. One second. Two seconds. Three seconds. Four.
Swallow your fear or let your fear swallow you.
Christopher yanked back on the hissing lady’s feet. She fell down the stairs, slamming her head on the bloody floor.
“AHHHH!” she hissed.
He only had seconds. Christopher ran from under the stairs and jumped over her outstretched arms. She reached up, tripping him. Christopher screamed and landed on the stairs above her. She reached for him. Her hands smearing blood up his pants as she climbed his body as if scaling a wall.
“There you are!” she hissed.
Christopher kicked back. The adrenaline coursing through his veins like the world’s blood. He connected with her chest. Sending her backward. She hit the wall and screeched. He ran to the top of the stairs and turned. The hissing lady was already on her feet. Racing up the stairs after him. Faster than anything he’d ever seen. Christopher slammed the door shut.
BOOM.
The hissing lady charged into the door. Like a caged animal.
Christopher braced his body between the door and the kitchen wall.
“Mill Grove Plumbing?” Jill said on the telephone. “Can you come out immediately? I think something is wrong with my pipes.”
BOOM. BOOM.
Christopher dug his heels into the ground. The hissing lady reached for the doorknob. It turned. Christopher reached for the dead bolt. Stretching his fingers above his head.
“YOU ARE GOING TO DIE!” she hissed.
Christopher reached as far as he could. He could feel the tendons in his shoulder ripping like taffy. But the dead bolt was too far. He could not reach it. His legs strained to keep her inside. But she was too powerful. His legs began to buckle.
BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.
Suddenly Christopher saw a bloody hand reach up his arm. He screamed. Until the hand passed him and snapped the dead bolt shut.
It was the nice man.
His face was pale and drawn. His eyes blinking, exhausted with pain.
“Come on,” he said.
BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.
“DAVID, WHERE ARE YOU?!”
Her voice echoed through the house. The nice man crouched down and led Christopher through the kitchen. Jill was at the stove, making hot dogs in a large soup pot. But they weren’t hot dogs.
They were fingers.
“DAVID!”
Christopher turned to see David Olson walk from the living room. The hissing lady pounded on the door. David flinched. Terrified. David reached for the dead bolt. Christopher was about to run back to stop him. The nice man grabbed Christopher’s shoulder.
“She can’t know David helped us. She’ll kill him,” he whispered.
Christopher nodded and followed the nice man outside.
“She’ll search the streets first,” he said. “Follow me.”
The nice man limped, leading Christopher through the backyards. A huge deer ran out of a doghouse, howling bloody murder at them. The deer leapt for the nice man’s throat. Until the chain yanked it back, and the deer landed on the slush-covered ground, whimpering.
“Guard dog,” the nice man said. “Come on.”
Christopher walked behind the nice man. They crept into a backyard. Next to a tire swing. Christopher heard the pitter-pat of feet.
He turned and saw Jenny Hertzog.
Dressed in her nightgown.
Hiding in the backyard.
Freezing to death.
He wondered if Jenny would ever believe what was happening in the backyard she used as a hiding place. Soon, the cold became too much. He saw Jenny Hertzog open the back door of her house and creep into the kitchen. The nice man gestured, and Christopher followed behind her. The house was smoky and dark. Jenny tiptoed into her entry hall, trying to go undetected. Her stepmother was in the living room. Asleep. Her Marlboro Red smoking in the ashtray. A daytime talk show was on. They were doing paternity tests.
“You ARE the father,” the host said.
Jenny crept up the stairs without waking her stepmother. She passed her stepbrother’s room. Quiet. She was just about to turn the corner when his door opened. He was older. With angry acne. And braces that he kept licking with his tongue.