Copyright 2000 by:

William H. Miltenberger

I was an invited speaker and panelist on the horror phenomenon at a writer's conference in Bangor, Maine. While there, I received the prestigious ‘Gravestone’ for being the state’s best selling horror author of the year. It wasn’t until I was returning home that I began to feel apprehensive.

I don’t know why, but I had the feeling I was being followed. When I checked my mirror, nothing but my imagination was behind me. Perhaps it was the deep, shadowy, darkness of the dense woods that I was driving through that provided the reason for my apprehensive feelings.

The car was acting up. It didn’t sound right and was losing power. “Hell, I’m never going to get home,” I mumbled to myself. I better call Ann and tell her I’ll be late. Just then, the car’s lights went out, and I pulled over on the dark shoulder to use the cell phone.

I looked in the center console, but the phone wasn’t there. Damn! I knew I’d used it on the way down to the conference to call a conferee. I looked in the glove compartment, but all I found was the power cord. That’s strange I thought. What did I do with it? I was certain I’d put it back in the glove compartment when I finished my call. “Damn, the car’s dead, the phone’s missing, and its a cold, miserable night,” I grumbled.

Great! It started to sleet. I got out of the car contemplating the walk back to Andover, the nearest town. I either had to hoof it back or wait here. Reluctantly, I locked the car and started walking back in the quiet darkness.

The flesh-stinging sleet changed to snow. I was uneasy. It wasn’t the night, nor the snow. It was something else in this dark shadowland. The persistent feeling something was behind me.

Since I didn’t expect car trouble, I’d ignored my wife’s advice to take a hat and gloves. I remembered telling her, “I won’t need them. I’m not going to be outside. Besides the hotel has a parking garage, and I’m not going to leave the hotel.” I reflected on that dumb decision and swore to myself from now on I'd prepare for winter even if I expected to be back inside within minutes.

It was really cold. My nose and tips of my ears were burning, my hands were numb to the bone, and my feet were wet because, of course, I didn’t take any boots. I was miserable. I needed a woolen scarf or something to shield my face. I knew when I finally reached a filling station, I could have a serious case of frostbite.

As I trudged along, I could hear the lonely whining of the wind through the trees. My feet crunched through the thin crust of ice on the ground, and the road appeared glass smooth. I wanted to stop and take shelter under one of the big nearby furs until the storm stopped, but that might not be for hours. I didn’t want to be outside that long.

I slipped and fell on the uneven shoulder. I shivered as I looked at my watch. I’d been walking for an hour, and it was almost nine o’clock. Ann would start to get worried. I’d told her I would be home by nine-thirty, and it was clear I’d really be late. I wished I could call her.

Suddenly, I saw headlights of an approaching car, and I began to wave my arms to attract the driver’s attention. He was driving carefully as he approached, and he slowed down just a bit as his headlights came upon me. Then he sped up.

***

My injuries had been life threatening. However, after three weeks with my pinned leg in a brace and only the ache of a broken pelvis bothering me, the doctors were satisfied enough with my progress and discharged me. I had medication for the discomfort and was told that it would gradually get better. So depending on my motivation, recovery was pretty much in my hands.

“Dear, who’s Herbert Sheed?” I said as I looked at the pile of messages Ann took for me during the past four weeks.

“I don’t know, Dear. He called and wanted to know how he could get in touch with you. I gave him your hotel and told him when you would be presenting at the conference. He thanked me, and said he would get in touch with you there. I guess he missed you.”

“I guess so. Nobody by that name contacted me. Did he say what he wanted?”

“Something about your plots. He liked the way you put your everyday heroes in seemingly impossible situations but gave them a way out if they were clever enough. I don’t know, something like that. I really don’t remember.”

“I guess it either wasn’t important or he got his questions answered at the conference. There’s one other caller here I don’t recognize. Who is Doctor Carmichael?”

Ann came back into the room and looked at the message for a moment and said, “He works at some institute. I can’t remember the name. He found something that involved you or one of your novels or something like that. He didn’t reach you either?”

“No. I thought he might be someone associated with my accident.”

“No, he called sometime after your accident. I don’t know. I’ve got to get going or I’ll never get back.”

“By the way, are you going to the grocery store? I’ve written down some requests.”

“Sure, give me the list.”

“Hey, don’t forget to bring back a small Christmas tree for the house. Something about three or four feet tall we can decorate this week. Just because I’m laid up doesn’t mean we have to forgo a tree.”

“That’s a good idea! There’s that little lot not far from the grocery on my way back. I’ll stop there and get one. What about ornaments and lights?”

“I know where they are in the closet. I’ll get them down.”

“Are you up to getting them down from the shelf?”

“Sure! I’ll manage. Go on. This morning’s weather report says we’re going to get more snow this afternoon. Hurry up so you’re back before it starts.”

“Bye Dear. Back in a couple of hours. Don’t forget to feed Rusty. I let him out this morning to do his thing and chase some rabbits. He should be whining to come in soon. See ya,” and with that she was out the door.

There was something about the name Herbert Sheed that disturbed me. The name was familiar, but I hadn’t heard it at the conference - somewhere else. It seemed to me I read it somewhere, maybe a newspaper. I tottered over to the closet and got out my coat and hat and then went out on the back porch where we gathered the old newspapers for the recycler. Maybe it was in one of the papers I read before the accident.

A half hour later I found the article. It was a book review of a novel written by Herbert Sheed dated a week before my accident. The review started by saying, “Robert Small eat your heart out.” The reviewer thought that Sheed was my heir apparent and couldn’t wait for his next novel. I remembered I wanted to see for myself how good Sheed was by ordering his book from Amazon dot com. The phone interrupted my thoughts. “Hello?”

“Mr. Small?”

“Yes, who is this?”

“Mr. Small, I’m Doctor Carmichael from the Bangor Institute. I’m glad I caught you at home. Do you have a few minutes to talk?”

“Yes, of course. What is it?”

“Mr. Small, I don’t know if you are familiar with the Bangor Institute, but we treat individuals who have problems coping with life in one way or another.”

“I’m sorry Doctor, but what has this to do with me?”

“Yes, yes I’m getting to that. You see we found a story we think you should read. It was written by one of our self committed patients and...”

“Doctor, excuse me for interrupting you, but I don’t read stories submitted to me. I suggest you call an agent to represent you.”

“Mr. Small, I don’t need an agent, and I can certainly understand why you don’t read stories submitted to you. But this is different. This story is about you, and you need to see it.”

“Doctor, I’m flattered that someone at your institute wrote about me, but I still don’t read unsolicited stories. I’m sorry, but I have to go,” and I hung up.

I’d turned away from the phone when it rang again. “Hello.”

“Mr. Small, the story is about your death.”

“Come again. What about my death?”

“I read you were recently involved in some kind of accident coming home from a conference. This story, written four weeks before that conference, describes in detail, how you were walking alongside a dark road and were hit by a car. Is that how you were injured?”

“Yes, it was. But anyone could have gotten the details from reading the newspaper.”

“Mr. Small, this story predicted your accident five weeks prior to it. The story also makes it clear that it wasn’t an accident. I think you should read the rest of the story. You may be in danger.”

“In danger, why?”

“Mr. Small, what I’m about to tell you must be kept in strictest confidence. This story is so horrible with its graphic details, and the fact that it predicted your accident with such accuracy, I felt I had no choice but to break a confidence and send it to you for your own protection.”

“For the past year, we’ve had a self admitted patient. The patient fancied himself as a horror story writer somewhat like yourself. However, this individual wrote his stories and then acted out the plots. He said he couldn’t help himself after he wrote a story. He had to act it out to see if he had the details right. He initially scared himself when, in a sane moment, he discovered what he was doing. That’s when he committed himself.”

“We worked with him, but instead of getting better, he got worse. At first, the stories were about animal mutilations and death. Three months ago his stories turned more violent and began to mention fictional people. We became concerned and tried to get him committed, but we were unsuccessful.”

“He left us. In cleaning his room, we found a story of his on the floor behind a dresser. It was about you. We put it in his file with the intention of returning it. However, we found he no longer resided at the address he gave us upon admission, and he left no forwarding address.”

“When I read of your accident, the details in the article seemed familiar. So familiar that I felt I’d read them before. That’s when I went to his file and retrieved the story. Everything was there. How you, and you are mentioned by name Mr. Small, are on a lonely stretch of road returning to your home at night. The visibility is bad. You are standing on the side of the road because of a car problem. You are hit by a passing car.”

“Mr. Small, the driver of that car was our patient. He says it in his story. It’s clear he ran into you on purpose.”

“Doctor, what was your patient’s name?”

After a long pause Doctor Carmichael whispered, “Herbert Sheed.”

A dreadful premonition passed through me like a cold knife. “Doctor, will you fax the story to me?”

“Yes, I thought you might want to see it. But you cannot say where you got it or mention my name or the Institute’s. Is that agreed?”

“It is.”

“Fine, I’ll take you at your word. Give me your fax number, and I’ll transmit it after we hang up. Oh, Mr. Small, one more thing. It seems that he thought he might not be successful with the accident attempt, so he describes two other very gruesome alternatives for your demise. Since you are still alive, I think you should read the alternatives so you can be prepared. As I said, with his other stories, he worked out the final details by committing the acts and discarding plots that didn’t work. That’s why I believe you are in grave danger.”

“Thank you, Doctor for your warning. Please send me his story immediately.”

Ten minutes later I was reading the first pages of the faxed story when the fax stopped. I picked up the phone to call the doctor and tell him of the interrupted transmission, but the line was dead.

The story started with a stalker sabotaging my car. Obviously Sheed was the stalker and had done something to the car at the conference so it would fail on my way home. According to his story, he knew where I lived so he didn’t have to follow closely. He knew the route, and he could wait until my car stopped before making his move. All the details were there except there was no mention of the weather.

The last three pages had a different scenario. The stalker isolated me in my house with my wife. Scary enough, but what happened next was worse. It started with his terrorizing us, but the fax was interrupted after that. Great, I needed to know what he was thinking.

Now the writer in me began to take over and hypothesized other ways Sheed might end his story. What was it Ann said Sheed told her on the phone? He admired me because I took ordinary people and put them in a bad situation. If they were clever enough they could survive. Was Sheed perfecting his plot so I wouldn’t?

I went out to the back porch, whistled and called for Rusty. No response. Damn! That’s just like him to go off chasing rabbits or squirrels and then come home at night all wet and dirty. While I thought that’s probably what happened, I still worried because maybe there was another explanation. Sheed had him.

As I reentered our house, my skin began to crawl as I thought of all the nasty things Sheed might be inclined to do. I began to fear for our fuzzy faced friend. Where was he? Why hadn’t he come home? I told myself my problem was an overactive imagination. Rusty was chasing squirrels.

The front door banged causing me to jump. As I turned around, Ann burst in with bags of groceries. “Hi! How are you doing? Did you have any trouble getting the Christmas lights?” she said as she came into the kitchen. Before I could answer, she went out again to the car.

She brought in two more large bags of groceries, dropped them on the kitchen counter and said, “I’ll get the tree next.” Again she bustled out the door before I had the chance to say anything.

I didn’t want to tell her about my suspicions. After all, that’s all they were -- just suspicions. I folded up the fax and stuffed it into my back pocket. She came back in and put down the Christmas tree and another bag of groceries by the kitchen table. She took off her coat and mittens, draped the coat over a kitchen chair, and gave me a big wet kiss on the mouth. “Well?” she said.

“Uh, an idea for a story came to me right after you left, and I forgot to get the lights. I’ll get them now while you put the groceries away.”

“I’ll get them.”

“No, let me do it. The doctor said I’ll recuperate faster if I’m active. He doesn’t want me to sit or lay around, and that’s all I’ve been doing since you left.”

“Who visited you while I was gone?”

“Nobody. Why?”

“There’s an extra set of car tracks part way up the drive. I thought someone came out to visit. Who was it?”

A shiver went through me. I had a feeling of foreboding, and my blood chilled. I lied. “Oh, I forgot about the mailman. He brought the mail to the door. Wasn’t that nice?”

“He did? That was nice. What did we get?”

“Uh, ads. I threw them away already. I’ll go get the lights,” I said trying to change the conversation.

“Okay, but if you can’t reach them let me know.”

“I will, Dear.” I hobbled out of the kitchen, locked the front door, and went up the stairs. After getting the lights, I looked out the bedroom window at the falling snow that covered the ground and trees below. Winter in the White Mountains of Maine was picturesque.

Then I saw footprints coming from the driveway to the side of the house. It looked like someone had been standing alongside the house looking in the living room window. From my perspective, I could see footprints going towards the back of the house. I moved to a back bedroom and looked out its window. The footprints lead to the back porch and then returned to the drive. A feeling of fear filled me. When I got downstairs, I asked Ann if she had been walking around the house.

“No, why?”

“No reason. I just wanted to know what it was like outside.” I teetered over to the kitchen window on the pretext of getting a glass of water and looked out the window while I drank it. I didn’t see any more footprints. Who in the hell would come out, look in our windows and then disappear? I had a nape-crinkling feeling - Sheed.

***

The snow was really coming down. As I looked out the window, it seemed as though I was in the middle of a gigantic pillow fight with fluffy white feathers flying all around and piling up on everything.

That night would have been beautiful, except my sinister thoughts ruined it. Periodically, I covertly checked the phone line. It was still dead. We finished decorating the Christmas tree, and were sitting in front of the fireplace reading.

“I wonder where Rusty is? He’s usually back before now,” Ann said.

I had an awful sinking feeling, but I didn’t want Ann to worry. “I don’t know, dear. He’ll be home soon.”

“I hope so. This snow looks like it’s getting deep. He’ll be alright won’t he?”

“Yes, Dear,” I lied.

“Well, I’m going to bed. Do you want anything before I go upstairs?”

“No. I think I’ll stay up a little longer and work on the novel I started this afternoon.”

“Okay, goodnight.”

“Goodnight.” I began reading the paper again when I heard Ann’s scream. “What’s wrong?” I said as I hobbled to the front hall.

Ann was standing in the hall looking through the beveled glass front door. “Oh, nothing. It must have been my imagination, but I thought I saw someone out there looking in at me. I’m sorry I screamed. It had to be just a shadow from a tree or something like that.”

“What do you mean? We’ve lived here for two years now and we’ve never seen anything in the door before. I’m going to take a look.”

“No! You can’t,” she emphatically stated throwing her arm across my chest to keep me from moving forward. “What if there really was someone out there? No, leave the door closed!” That was a command.

“Dear, three quarters of the door is glass. It’s not going to stop anyone if they want to get in here.”

“I don’t care. Leave it closed! It was probably my imagination anyway. Go back to work on your story. I’m fully awake now and couldn’t go to sleep if I wanted. I think I’ll watch some TV. Go on, get going Gimpy.”

It was what Ann didn’t say that really scared me. How would I stop someone from coming in and hurting us with my leg in a brace and my pelvis still healing? They could go right through me without any problem at all. No, I needed a strategy. Damn! I wish I had the rest of Sheed’s story. Again, I picked up the phone. It was still dead. I was beginning to feel trapped by the unseen, hovering and looming presence of Sheed.

Ann fell asleep in the family room around midnight, and I passed out about two. About half past three in the morning I thought I heard a noise on the front porch. Quietly, I got off the sofa, and noiselessly moved to where I could see out the front door. It looked to me like there was something on the front porch, but the bevel glass door prevented me from getting a clear view.

I went back to the family room and softly spoke in Ann’s ear, “Wake up.”

Her eyelids twitched for a second before opening. “What, what is it?”

“Something’s on the porch. Be quiet. Look out the front door. You can barely see a shape.”

Ann carefully moved through the family room until she could see through the front hall to the door. “You’re right. Something’s there. What is it?”

“I don’t know, but I have a very bad feeling about this.”

“Why?”

I had a horrible feeling of dread. I knew why, but I ignored her question and went to the kitchen and picked up the phone to make a call. Still no dial tone. Nothing. Quietly, I replaced the phone, checked that the back door was locked, and headed back to Ann with a meat cleaver. I didn’t know what else might be of use if we had a chance.

“Here take this.” I handed Ann the meat cleaver. She looked at me in horror, but took it anyway.

“You know,” she whispered, “whatever it is hasn’t moved since I’ve been watching. That’s strange.”

“I don’t like it.” I went to the door. Whatever it was didn’t move. I braced myself, turned the doorknob, yanked open the door, and then retched when I saw it.

Ann dropped the cleaver as her hands came up to her mouth covering a scream. “Oh, my God!”

Someone had cut a small fir tree, dragged it from the woods, and propped it up on the porch. It was festooned with the dead bodies of small animals. Bodies of birds and squirrels were impaled on cut branches hanging there by a wing, neck, tail or leg. Some were partially skinned. Their blood drained over the tree. A note written in blood hung from the top of the tree saying “Merry Christmas.” I was happy Rusty wasn’t on the tree.

Ann crouched down with her arms wrapped around her body and began to slowly rock back and forth on her heels sobbing. “Who would do this?” she said through her sobs.

“We have a problem. I think I know who’s doing this, but I don’t know why.”

Before I could say more, we heard the sound of breaking glass at the back of the house. I closed and locked the front door. Ann picked up and clutched the cleaver so tightly that her knuckles turned white from the effort. We hurried to the back of the house and found a broken window in the kitchen. A fuzzy red-haired object was attached to a large rock on the floor. It was Rusty’s tail.

Her voice and eyes filled with fear when she said, “Who could cut the tail off our dog?”

“Herbert Sheed.”

“That’s the name of the man who called you. Why would he do this?”

“I told you, I don’t know.”

I gently took her hand as I ushered her back into the family room. I reluctantly took the folded fax out of my hip pocket and said, “Read these.”

She took her time reading. “It stops in the middle. Where is the rest of it?”

“That’s all I got before the phone went dead.”

“You didn’t tell me the phone was dead. When did that happen?”

“Before you came home with the groceries.”

“You mean we’ve been sitting here all day and night without a phone and you’re just getting around to telling me now? Who sent you the story? And why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

I really didn’t have any excuse except to say that I didn’t think much of it at first, but now after what had happened, I knew I should have confided in her sooner. She was mad. At last Ann calmed down and asked, “Why do you think Herbert Sheed is behind this?”

“I didn’t tell you, but before I got the fax, Dr. Carmichael, a psychiatrist at The Bangor Institute, called me. He was Sheed’s psychiatrist.”

“Sheed was in a psychiatric institute? My god! What did he do?”

“He didn’t do anything except write stories. Dr. Carmichael said I was the subject of one of them, and he was worried that Sheed might have had something to do with my accident. He wrote about it before it happened. While Carmichael was sending the story to me, the telephone line went dead. I only got part of it.”

“Alright, we have part of his story. You’re a horror story writer, figure out what he’s going to do next from what he’s written.”

“I wish I could, but it’s not that easy. I’ve got some ideas, but I’m not certain he’ll do any of them.”

“Well what are we going to do? We can’t just wait for him to make the next move. We have to figure out what we can do to help ourselves until that phone line gets fixed. With your leg, we’re trapped in the house.”

“When it’s morning, we’ll leave and go to the Sheriff.”

***

Morning came with a sinister start. It was still snowing and the day was dark, and windy. Ann and I went out to get in the car, but the tires were slashed. We were stuck. Sheed wanted us to stay put. The telephone still didn’t work, so we were isolated. The privacy of our remote location, that we were so proud of, haunted us like the silence of a graveyard at midnight. We were trapped.

“What are we going to do now?”

“Herbert Sheed has to be behind this. I have to stay, you don’t.” I said.

“I’m not going to leave you here. Besides, how far will I get walking in this snow? He could be out there just waiting for me to leave. Then he can get to you and me separately. Why make it easy for him?”

“You’re right. If we’re to be trapped in our house by Sheed, then we’ll turn our house into a trap for him. If he decides to come after us, there are things in the tool shed we can use to surprise him. Come inside while I make a list of what I want.”

When Ann returned from the shed, it appeared as though she had logs in the log carrier. “Before I left, I put a couple of logs on top of the stuff to hide it from Sheed if he was watching. Hopefully, he’ll think it was just wood.”

Ann and I nailed all the windows and outside doors shut except for the front door. We drew all the drapes and removed all the light bulbs from the fixtures and lamps. I rigged an ax over the steps leading to the bedrooms upstairs so that it could pivot allowing its blade to swing down. The ax head was held in position by a restraining pin in a bracket with fishing line attached to the pin. It was set so someone stepping on the line, would pull the restraining pin from the bracket and release the blade. The weight of the ax head would cause the ax to swing down and strike anyone on the step.

“What are we going to do with the big leghold traps I got from the shed?”

“Take our front throw rug and cut a hole that’s big enough for an open trap to fit through. Save the cutout part. We’ll place the trap in the center of the cutout area just past the sweep of the front door. Put the cutout piece of carpet where the bait goes, but not over the trap teeth. That will hide it somewhat, especially in the dark. Put the second trap on the top stair under a throw rug the same way. One of them should get him.”

“What if they don’t?”

“That’s why I rigged the ax over the stairs. If he gets past the traps and ax, I have the chain saw. You and I will be hiding in the bedrooms upstairs; but first we have to make some modifications to the closets. Help me take everything upstairs.”

A guest bedroom closet and the master bedroom closet were back to back. Using a shop knife, I carefully cutout aligned sections of plasterboard at the back of the guest and master bedroom closets. Then using the chain saw, I cutout two wall joists so we could slip back and forth through the wall from one closet to the other. I attached handles on the backside of the plasterboard so I could pull them to close the openings. Then we swept up the wood chips and hung clothes in both closets to cover the seams.

“In the darkness, with any luck, he won’t see the seams in the plasterboard when we pull the sections back in place from the other side. We’ll hide in the guest bedroom closet when he’s in the master bedroom; and move into the master bedroom closet when he’s in the guest bedroom. We’ll go back and forth between the two closets through the hole. When he comes into one room we’ll slip into the other. If he finds us, I’ll attack him with the chain saw.”

“What am I supposed to do then, run?”

“Exactly.”

“If you’re going to go at him with a chain saw, he’ll be distracted.”

“That’s the idea. It’ll give you time to get away.”

“In this snow? You’re crazy! He’d finish you off and then track me. Where is the cleaver? I know what I’m going to do. He’ll have to take on both of us.”

“I don’t want you doing that.”

“You don’t have a choice. I’m going to take out all the lights upstairs. Then I’ll get blankets and put them in the closet. Finish your work.”

Before dusk, we had the house as secure and ready for him as we could. Periodically, I’d checked the phone, but it was still dead. If Sheed was going to do anything, he’d do it tonight in the storm.

***

It was midnight, and we had been in the closet just before it got dark. Ann finally fell asleep, but I couldn’t. The darkness of the house had grown oppressive as it closed around us in our small confines. It was almost viscous as it covered us like a black velvet robe obscuring our vision.

Only the moan of the wind through the trees outside could be heard. Then a tiny squeak snapped my attention back to reality. It could have easily gone unheard if I hadn’t been in a state of heightened anticipation. I sensed an unseen presence entering the claustrophobic blackness, and it caused my stomach to turn into a writhing ball of snakes.

I nudged Ann. While I couldn’t see her in the blackness, I knew she was awake because she leaned to my ear and asked, “What?” I put my finger across her lips. I knew that both of us now were listening and searching for sounds from below. What we heard was no louder than the moon going behind the clouds, but something was downstairs.

The snap of the trap startled us. As we huddled in the master bedroom closet listening for a scream, we heard something thrown into the living room. “Was that the trap? Why isn’t he screaming? Didn’t he step on it?” Ann asked.

“Maybe it was too obvious. We still have the one upstairs and our trip wire on the steps.”

We heard him prowling around the house. The floorboards squeaked and snapped as he walked across them. He was no longer trying to be quiet. There were only a few throw rugs downstairs to muffle his footsteps, so we heard him move through the front hall into the dining room towards the kitchen. We heard him cross the kitchen and slide open the pocket door between it and the laundry room. Slowly he worked his way to the hall that led to the family room. From the family room, he went into the living room; and from there, back towards the front of the house.

Then he was back in the front hall, but it wasn’t until we heard one of the steps creak that we knew he was coming up. “He’s bound to step on the fishing line and trip the ax or stick his foot in the trap in the upstairs hall,” I whispered. Again, silence.

Then the rattle of the master bedroom door knob startled us. We had closed and locked all the doors upstairs so he would have to break them open to get in. We hoped that while he was trying to break-in one of the doors, we might get the jump on him.

He didn’t force the door. He moved down the hall and tried each of the four other doors by jiggling the knob slightly. Then we heard him kicking in a door. Our door’s have solid wood cores. Therefore, he couldn’t just put his foot through them. He had to break the jam and force the door open if he wanted to get into a room.

We heard wood splinter and a door bang open. We heard him enter a room, slide the closet door open, leave and move down the hall towards us kicking in doors as he went. He was working his way back towards our bedroom at the head of the stairs.

His unrelenting methodical search produced an air of expectancy and heightened our fear. I groped in the dark for the chain saw and knew that Ann had the cleaver.

We heard him rattle the guest bedroom door, and we made certain that the plasterboard cutout in the back wall of the closet was in place. Then we moved into the master bedroom and got ready to open its door when he started to kick through the guest bedroom door.

But for some reason, he didn’t break in the door. He began to try the master bedroom door. Quickly, we moved back into the guest bedroom. Instead of breaking into the master bedroom, however, he suddenly smashed open the guest bedroom door knocking Ann down.

His flashlight blinded me. I yanked at the chain saw starter cord, but now it wouldn’t start. He rushed me, but Ann managed to trip him. As he fell, something clattered to the floor in front of me. My night vision was gone. I couldn’t really see anything well. I just kept trying to get the chain saw started as I pulled and pulled on the damn cord. The motor sputtered and I began to smell gas. Shit! It was flooded.

I saw him swing the light and strike Ann. As I heard her fall, I threw the chain saw at him. “You Sonofabitch!” he yelled.

It gave me the chance I needed. I lurched towards him and knocked him over on the floor with me on top of him. He hit at me with the flashlight. We rolled around in the room. My hip sent searing waves of pain to my brain; but I wouldn’t let go. If I could get him into the hall, maybe I could push him into the trap. I got lucky with a punch. I tagged him right on the chin. His grip loosened, and I squirmed away and into the hall.

I knew where the trap was. It was to the right near the top of the stairs. I had to stay to the left and close to the wall to keep from stepping on it myself. If I could get him to chase me, he might step in it. I moved towards the stairs and grabbed the handrail waiting for him to come after me. The pain in my hip was intense, and I battled waves of nausea as I stood there waiting for him to come out of the room.

He didn’t come. I saw the flashlight beam swing around, heard him take a few steps, and grunt. He came out of the room with his arm around Ann and holding the flashlight. In the other, he had a gun. “Nothing to say? The great horror story writer is wordless? My, my. What a shame,” and he took a step closer to me. “Go down the steps,” he commanded.

I held my ground. One more step closer and I’d chance another lunge at him. He didn’t move any closer. Instead he pulled the trigger. The deafening roar of the gun almost caused me to lose my balance as the bullet whistled past my head and hit the stair wall behind me. “Get down the steps now or I’ll shoot your wife!”

I carefully moved down the steps holding on to the handrail. He didn’t seem to notice me skipping over a step more than half way down. I could tell Ann was trying to figure out just where she was in the hall. When I was most of the way down the steps, he began to push her forward as they moved to the head of the stairs.

Suddenly, Ann took a big step forward and pulled him with her. Snap! His foot went into the steel leg trap. He screamed and began to fall as Ann leapt forward and jumped down the stairs, skipping steps as she went. We both ran the rest of the way down. He hit the floor and thrashed around for a few seconds. Then we heard the trap squeak as he pried it open to free his foot. He hurled it down the stairs at us.

“You Bitch,” he screamed as he staggered at the top of the stairs and illuminated us at the foot.

He had us. He grabbed the stair rail and started to stagger down the steps keeping his gun pointed at us all the way. He couldn’t hold the flashlight and hold onto the handrail at the same time. The light almost slipped from his grasp several times. He stopped part way down to adjust his grip on the light. He was almost at the trip line. Just two more steps and he’d hit it. All the while a constant stream of invectives flowed from his mouth.

He hobbled down one more step. “Run,” I said. Ann went left and I staggered right and Sheed came in pursuit tripping on the steps as he swung his gun in Ann’s direction. The ax fell but swung past his head because he tripped and grabbed the handrail to catch himself. He straightened up and looked bewildered. The back of the ax head struck him right in the face knocking him over backwards. He slid down the remaining steps holding his head. The pistol and flashlight tumbled down and landed on the floor at my feet.

The phone rang. Ann and I shared a startled glance before she raced to the kitchen to find it. I heard her knocking over furniture, pots and pans before her breathless, “Hello?”

“Thank God! This is Ann Small. Call the Sheriff and get him to come out here right away. We caught a man trying to kill us. Hurry!”

I’d found the gun and had it and the flashlight pointed at Sheed who was bleeding profusely from both the nose and the mouth. “Who was that?”

“It was a telephone lineman checking our phone. The storm knocked down some wires. When I told him we caught someone trying to kill us he said he’d call the Sheriff right away.”

The phone rang as she spoke. From Ann’s conversation, I knew that it was the Sheriff and he was on his way. Ann’s voice faltered a second when she asked, “Is he alright? Oh, Dear God! Thank you, thank you, thank you! Oh, thank you!” She hung up.

“What? What did he say?”

“Rusty was found last night by someone plowing the roads. He’s alive, but the Sheriff says he’ll be at the vets for a week or so because he’s suffering from exposure and someone cut off most of his tail. The Sheriff says he’ll live.”

“When is the Sheriff going to get here?”

“In about an hour. Can we wait that long?”

“We’ll make it. Like Sheed told you on the phone, he liked the way I put my heroes in seemingly impossible situations but gave them a way out if they were clever enough. Sheed just didn’t realize how clever a frightened guy can be when he’s trapped.”