empty soda cans and plastic water bottles.
His father motioned at all of them. “Don’t move. Don’t make a sound. I’ll be right back.”
As he started for the stairs, something brushed against the glass on the other side of the patio doors. Cindy gasped and Stephanie whimpered. Sam moaned, his eyes wide. He hugged Stephanie tightly, and Randy wondered if it was to comfort her or himself. The sound came again, more forceful this time. The doors rattled in their frame. Then something tapped the glass.
Jerry ran for the stairs and took them two at a time. They heard his footsteps above them as he hurried toward the bedroom. The tapping sound continued, slow and rhythmic. Clenching his fists, Randy stood. It seemed to him that it took a very long time to do so. His heart pounded and his ears felt like they were on fire. Unable to see past the curtains that covered the sliding glass doors, he slowly crossed the living-room floor. Sam, Stephanie and his mother watched in horror.
“Randy!” Cindy reached for him. “Get back here.”
He shook his head, not bothering to turn around.
His mother called for him again, louder this time. Still not looking back, Randy waved his hand impatiently and continued toward the kitchen.
“Dude . . .” Sam made a choking noise. “You heard what your dad said.”
Randy ignored them both. The only words of concern he wanted to hear were from Stephanie, but fear seemed to have rendered her mute. He stared at the doors, wondering what was out there.
Swallowing hard, Randy strode forward, his mind made up. Whatever was out there, he wasn’t going to let it fuck with his friends and his family any longer. He kept his gaze focused on the doors and felt the living-room carpet give way to linoleum floor beneath his feet. He skirted the kitchen table and drew closer. It was darker in the kitchen than in the living room, and Randy wished for a moment that he’d brought the candle with him.
The tapping became more insistent, changing to a rapid-fire staccato. Randy stopped in front of the sliding glass doors and realized that whatever was making the sound was doing it from near ground level. He reached for the curtains and hoped that Stephanie couldn’t see his hand shaking.
“Randy Elmore Cummings . . .”
Randy cringed, his hand pausing in midair.
Frightened or not, his mother clearly meant business. She only used his middle name when she was seriously pissed off at him. Worse, that middle name had now been revealed to his best friends—both of whom he’d managed to keep it secret from for the past eighteen years. Shaking his head, he reached again for the curtains. The tapping grew louder, as if whatever was on the other side of the patio doors was agitated at the delay. His fingers brushed against the coarse fabric.
A hand slammed down on his shoulder and squeezed hard. Randy yelped, both in pain and surprise. He looked up, and his father was beside him, clutching the handgun in one fist. Even though he’d fired it many times in the past, the weapon looked bigger than Randy remembered.
“Dad—”
Removing his hand from his son’s shoulders, Jerry raised one finger to his lips. Randy fell silent. The tapping on the glass resumed, frantic and angry.
With it came a dry, rustling sound. Randy held his breath. Jerry grasped the curtain and pulled it aside.
A large black crow stood on the other side of the glass, tapping at the doors with its beak. It stopped, tilted its head up and stared at them. Both Randy and his father exhaled at the same time. Then Jerry laughed.
“What is it?” Sam called. “What’s out there?”
Jerry turned around to face them. “It’s just a bird. That’s all. Just an ugly old crow. Big sucker, too.”
The others murmured among themselves, and Randy, whose attention was still focused on the bird, heard the relief in their voices. He tried to speak, tried to get their attention, but suddenly he had no breath. The bird was changing. As he watched, it turned shadowy, blurred. And then it
A tall man, dressed all in black, stood on the patio where only a second before there had been a crow. He grinned at Randy, revealing rows of white teeth. Too many teeth. Randy didn’t think human beings were supposed to have that many in their mouths.
The man in black raised a fist. Randy whined softly. “Dad . . .”
Still grinning, his father started to turn toward him. The stranger’s fist smashed through the glass doors, and he grasped Jerry Cummings by the ear.
“Come here.” The man’s voice reminded Randy of fingernails on a chalkboard.
Jerry had time to utter a startled yelp, and then his attacker yanked him forward, pulling his head through the shattered hole. Glass fragments fell to the kitchen floor. The gun slipped from Jerry’s hand and spun like a top on the linoleum. Randy screamed, dimly aware that his mother, Sam and Stephanie were doing the same behind him.
Laughing, the man on the patio jerked Jerry’s head down. Long, jagged shards of glass slashed his face and throat. Blood spurted, running down the doors on both sides. Jerry wailed and thrashed, arms flailing, legs kicking wildly as the stranger pushed his head even lower. Another shard speared his eye, and Randy heard a small pop, like air rushing from a sealed plastic bag. His father’s cries ceased. Jerry jittered once more and then lay still. His body went limp and the glass slipped even farther into his eye socket.
Randy gaped, crying as the killer grasped his father’s hair with both hands and tugged him through the opening. The remaining glass shattered as Jerry’s corpse was pulled through. Randy flinched as the stranger lifted his father’s head and kissed him on the mouth. The murderer’s cheeks seemed to balloon for a moment, as if he’d swallowed a mouthful of something. Then he casually tossed Jerry’s lifeless form aside and stepped through the hole.
“Didn’t you hear me knocking? I was gently tapping, tapping at your chamber door.”
Randy scrambled backward, tripped and fell. He sprawled across the kitchen floor and spotted his father’s gun. He reached for it, but the invader moved quicker, kicking it away. The weapon slid across the floor and slammed against the kitchen cabinets.
“It wouldn’t have done you any good,” the man said, looking down at him. The tip of the killer’s black hat brushed against the ceiling fan. “But if you don’t believe me, go ahead and try. I’ll wait.”
Randy skittered backward, sobbing. The man followed along, clearly enjoying the sport. His laughter echoed through the kitchen.
“What do you want?” Randy shrieked.
“Your soul. They taste better if you’re scared.”
The man leaned over him and Randy closed his eyes.
“Youuuu get away from my son!”
Footsteps pounded across the floor. Randy’s eyes snapped open in time to see his mother leaping over him, flinging herself at her husband’s killer. She beat the intruder with her fists, but the man in black swatted her aside. She crashed into the refrigerator and then stumbled to her feet. Groaning, Cindy grabbed the salt and pepper shakers from the countertop and flung them. Both bounced off the figure’s shoulders and smashed on the floor, spilling their contents all over the linoleum. A thrown coffee mug suffered the same fate. Then Cindy seized a steak knife from the dish drainer.
“Get away from us,” she screamed. “Jerry! What did you do to my Jerry?”
“Mom.”
“Randy,” Sam shouted. “Come on!”
Randy clambered to his hands and knees and crawled toward the handgun. Grains of salt from the spilled dispenser stuck to his palms. The intruder’s attention was focused on his mother. The killer taunted her, leaning in close and then darting out of the way as she repeatedly slashed at him with the steak knife. They repeated this dance again, the killer giggling as Cindy shrieked.
“Run, Randy.” Her eyes didn’t leave her tormentor. “Get out of here.”
“Leave her alone,” Randy shouted as his fingers curled around the pistol. He jumped to his feet and pointed the weapon at the man in black, holding the .45 with both hands and spacing his feet apart at shoulder width, just as his father had taught him. “I mean it, you son of a bitch. Get the fuck away from her.”
