It’s long past midnight,
and I hear the front door creak open.
I think, Who’s there?, but the only response I receive is silence.
My stomach bubbles in unease.
I look at the calendar hanging above my quilted bed.
It’s July 27th, 1901.
Under the date is my mothers handwriting,
Marking the date of my husband’s town meeting.
My childhood home is riddled with unbreaking silence,
sitting in the heart of the countryside.
My husband told me he’d be home within the hour,
so I assume it’s him who arrived.
The clock keeps ticking,
I decide to put my book down and quietly inquire about who-
or what, is downstairs.
It’s probably my young son, out of his bedroom, I convince myself.
Walking by his paneled door, I can hear the sound of his snoring.
What is that noise? I hear cold steps enter the parlor.
Fear is strung through me. My fingers go numb.
Someone is in my house.
I cannot move, I cannot breathe, the only thing I can seem to do is wait.
Wait outside my innocent son’s door,
Wait for the intruder to make his way up the stairs,
And to make my next move.
I inhale, and exhale.
The foreign thumping of footsteps is making its way around my kitchen table.
My mind racing, comes to the grim realization that this person is not my beloved husband.
There is an intruder in my house, and I am the only person who can defend myself.
The night grows darker,
And I have now acquired my father’s shotgun.
I know not how to use it, but I pray to God that\
It may scare away whomever is lurking in my home.
In my left hand, I have my lit candle.
The hot wax drips down, and I am losing my sanity with every passing minute. A pounding rings out, He is coming up the stairs.
Another stride up the staircase, I wait around the staircase to attack.
The idea rings out through my mind: It’s either me or him,
He is threatening everything I have worked for.
I refuse to let him kill me like a fox in the night,
I refuse to let him shatter my family.
An eternity passes by before I hear his footfall against the carpet,
He is upstairs.
I drop the shotgun, distracting the intruder.
With two swift steps around the corner, I smash the burning candle into his left cheek.
A piercing shriek rings out, and while he is distracted, I pick up the shotgun.
My finger wraps around the trigger.
It’s all or nothing, I think,
and then the shot fires.
Deafening silence after the initial noise.
Horror washes over me in waves, and I turn to the right
to see the ornate wall mirror, and someone vile staring back at me.
A murderer staring back at me.
