Fred pulled his Chrysler Mini-Van into his driveway and left the stresses of work in the car to saturate the stained upholstery only to permeate his body again the following day.  A cold autumnal dusk escorted him to the front door.  The sky resembled a pumpkin throwing its flickering grimace around with deepening shades of black silhouetting it.
          Once inside, he headed for the kitchen.  A deep smell of roasted garlic and basil seeped through the panels of the tiny kitchen door.  He just wanted to sit and eat.
         His son almost slammed the door in his face as he dashed from the kitchen.  "Sorry, Dad!"
         "Do you have the gift?" his mom asked with concern.
         "Of course," he replied with a lift in his voice that seemed to wonder how he could forget it.  The heart-shaped porcelain box he carried was his last hope of getting Jenny back.  His mother knew how important it was to him.  He checked his pocket anyway though, just to make sure.  In a second he was out the door.
         With that little scene over with, Fred took his seat at the table and awaited the meal he spent the last hour at work thinking about.
          "So how was work?" his wife asked while busying herself with the final preparations of dinner.
         "The same. Joe wants this done now, that done yesterday.  We did finish the quarter report for the firm’s account.  I'm glad that's finally over.”  He reached for a section of the paper that lay sprawled on the penninsula counter.
          "Well, I'm glad that you can relax a little now."
          "Hey, did you read this, about the robberies across town.  It says that at least three house were hit by the same people," Fred exclaimed, with shock and bemusement, not taking his eyes off the paper.
          "Yes, I did. It's a shame.  This was such a nice town a while ago."  The roasted chicken was placed on the table along with a bowl of mashed potatoes and gravy.  "I'm sure glad that it happened across town.  White or dark meat?"
          The night continued on as usual.

                               

          A bump from downstairs woke him from an already restless sleep.  Confusion rolled in his mind until the second bump came.  He knew that sound.  It was the basement door hitting the stove.  But who would be in the basement? he thought.  And then the newspaper article burst into his mind.  "Oh, no," he whispered.  Another thump and the slide of wood on tile.  He's in the kitchen.  What the hell am I going to do?  God, think!  The gun! Yea!
          Fred slithered out his bed and made his way to the closet.  The box in the corner contained his hand gun and ammo for just such an occasion.  Loading the gun presented an unforeseen problem as his hands were shaking violently.  With only four shells, he abandoned the closet and headed for the hallway.  He had to hold his breath or the short gasps of fear would surely be heard.  All plans had been forgotten; only an instinctive will to survive guided him.  A perch atop the stairs seemed the best position, like a jaguar in a tree.  Boots on tile; thud-tap.....thud-tap.
          The world shrunk down to the plateau of carpet in front of him.  The darkness seemed to form a shell trapping him in, forcing the situation to unfold like a play.
          God, this isn't happening.  Creak...creak...thud-creak.  He leveled the gun in preparation.  The butt of the gun carried the sweat to the bottom where it dripped off onto his bare leg.  All the muscles in his arms became unconsciously tense.
          Thump....Thump.....Thump....Creak.....Thump
          A shadow, death itself, seemed to rise up the stairs carried on wings of madness.  It swayed with inhuman motions.  Fred's rib-cage strained to keep his heart inside him.  Thoughts shot through his mind, but they were erratic like dreams; dreams that don't happen except in dreams.  This was no dream.  The inviting trigger chained him to the moment, to the hallway, to the floor against the wall, to this shadow man come to kill his family!
          Crack. Crack.
          The figure bucked backwards; ink, indian black ink spewed all over the already black walls where the contrast was immediately evident to Fred.   Then  the thud of a lifeless body hitting the tile and a sound Fred had not expected to hear, like a beautiful flower set upon the cold smooth marble of a grave, the sound of porcelain on tile; the sound spread out like a spider's web clinging to his body and wrapping him in a terrifying immobile state that defied his attempts to get up, his attempts to scream, his attempts to accept what he had just done.