The streets are dead; sharp cones of light illuminate the summer cooked asphalt and fend off the darkness. All is still accept for a lone shadow lurking in front of the home of Jason and Amanda Smith. It is three in the morning when a disturbing sound shatters through the small ranch and Amanda jerks upright in bed, peering out into the lines of moonlight advancing across the sheets. “What the hell was that?” Her voice echoes across the wood floors over the soft whir of the fan.

Her husband rolls over and exhales all of the air from his lungs, “I don’t hear anything.” Her ears explore the silence for relief from her racing heart, and ever so hesitantly Jason starts to commit to sleep again. The thud-thud in her chest resonates in her ears for a while even though her tired muscles begin to relax. Suddenly, a massive shatter of glass splits through the floorboards; and this time it is Jason who shoots up in confusion. They lock petrified eyes and he briefly touches her back before jolting out of bed. She watches him slip on a cotton shirt over his broad shoulders and claim his baseball bat from the closet. She follows him.

"Stay in bed," he whispers, but she does not listen.
Her feet halt at the doorway to the hall but Jason continues down towards the direction of the noise. She wraps her blood red nails around the door frame and peruses him with her squinting gaze. Every few feet the dusty floorboards spring to life in the vibrant glow of the moon, moonlight creeping across the wood grains. The walls close in on the hallway, seemingly narrowing with each step Jason takes. “See anything?” she murmurs as he halts in the silver moonlight flowing through one of the windows.
He shakes his head, “I’m going downstairs to check it out, stay here.” As he dissolves down the steps she waits, waits apprehensively for his return. Each step protests with a whining creek, and the small gleam of the moonlight on Jason’s aluminum bat is the last thing she catches a glimpse of.
Minutes pass that feel like hours; time strangles her sanity as she waits. A sound materializes, breaking up through the staircase. A silencing scream erupts into the night air and a horrendous thud follows. She finds herself quickly advancing down the hallway, clamoring to the stairs with cold, bare feet. It never occurs to her in her blind panic to call 911; but halfway down the stairs a voice in her head pulls her feet to a sudden stop.

She eyes the front door, with blue irises reflecting the light through the curtains. She could run, she could escape to get help, but what about Jason? What would the neighbors think if she came up to their house at two in the morning, called the police, and everything was fine? They already thought she was crazy, they didn’t understand why anyone their right mind would want to be on the bomb squad.
But bombs were less predictable than people, she could do this. Finally, she overcomes her trembling grip on the railing and peers around the corner to see the forever desolate living room. Three chairs reside out evenly across the floor like they always did, sleeping in the shadows of the dark carpets and gray walls. Even the books dwelling in the bookcase were as they had been. Not even a spec of dust had shifted. Cautiously, her feet crawl on towards the kitchen but again some force hooks her at the doorway. Lips pursed together, she squints through stray strands of brown hair into the devouring black of the night. There is a mass mounded together near the kitchen table, sprawled out across the icy tile like a pile of dirty laundry. In panic she dashes for the light switch, light flashing over her worst fears.

An expanding lake of blood is consuming the white floor, gravitating around the island that is her husband. He cranes his neck to look up at her and mumbles something as she stands there frozen in disbelief.

"Run." he manages to say, pressing hard on the wound at his side. But she can't, her brain stays glued to the red seeping in between his fingers. "RUN!"

Tears prying at her eyelids, she manages a single step forward, just in time for an icy feeling to spread across her back. A glimmer of apprehension jolts up her spine as anonymous eyes burn into the back of her head. The whites of Jason's eyes grow wide, it is too late.

"Don't move," a sandpaper voice commands, and her face drains pale. "Don't move and I won't hurt you."

She finds no words again. A silver blade glints in her peripherals and Jason tries a failed attempt to stand. "T-t-take anything, anything you want, just don’t hurt her!" he pleads, seeing the world slipping from his grasp. Meanwhile, she is stealing glances the letter opener on the table.

Roughly, the intruder throws Amanda to her knees, the side of her forehead grazing the counter. In excruciating pain now, she turns on her back and glares up for the first time at the man. His gaping gaze conveys panic and he has knife-like stubble enveloping his cheeks. His eyes dart back and forth in apprehension, hiding in dark raccoon circles consuming the life in his face. His hair is shrouded by a black hat and his thick tree tuck legs tower over Amanda, now fumbling towards Jason.

"I can't let you live." the man replies, taking stride by stride closer, and each time Jason's heart sinks.

"Now just wait a second,” she said facing the man, looking him straight in his cold eyes. Her cheeks grow hot with emotion as he stares back, but a crisis is not her weakness. She manages the calmest tone she can. “You can just leave. Take what you want and leave!”
The closest thing to sympathy illuminates in his eyes but soon evaporates away. The darkness begins to consume him again and he is no longer human. “You have seen my face, I can't let you go. You shouldn't have turned on the light." he replies, almost to himself. The knife, clouded at the tip with Jason's blood, dangles menacingly in front of their faces. "I will make it painless." the man whispers as he stoops over them.
Amanda shields Jason who is teetering on the verge of unconsciousness. Heart racing moments leave her cowering in the shadows of fear. She waits until the man's head eclipses the light from the chandelier then strikes; propelling the full force of the letter opener into the center of his chest. He explodes in a distressed wail, his eyes rolling back out of sight and shifting white then slipping away in a red blizzard of blood. His knife collides with the floor as he plummets to his knees, twisting and knotting, wobbling and twitching before colliding sideways into the ground. Jolting about for a moment, he cements as still as death itself, eyes blanketed with snow. The only movement was the small stream of foam trickling down the corner of his stubble coated face.

When Amanda finally manages to glance away, Jason is clinging to her wrist so tight her fingers were growing purple. "I called 911." he gasps as she crouches by him, applying pressure to the wound with the excess of her shirt.

"You’ll be okay now," she replies, in a voice that dissolves in opacity.

"Are the lights still on?" he asks. "It is so dark."

"Yes," she develops a sense of confusion, but can feel his heart beat choking as the frequency of the sirens increase. Lights of red and blue that flood across their lawn and in through the curtains reflect in her gray irises. "You will be okay," she says in between sobs that shake her whole body, "The night‘s almost over."