Chapter 1 - Somewhere In Texas
1. Tiny Fingers
So small.
So very, very small.
The fingers pressed under the front door of her home were so very small. She could not stop staring at those baby fingers straining desperately to reach her as she stood trembling on the porch. The cool, morning air lightly puffed out her pink nightgown. Her pale fingers clutched the thin bathrobe tightly closed at her throat as she continued to stare at the child's hand grasping in her direction.
I knew we needed weather stripping, she thought vaguely. Texas weather could change so fast and this early March morning was crisp.
The gap under the front door was far too large. These new modern homes looked so fancy, but were actually not very well built. If they had bought the nice Victorian she had wanted there wouldn't be a gap under the front door. A gap large enough for that little hand to slide underneath.
The tiny fingers clawed desperately under the edge of the door.
The banging from inside the house had reached a steady staccato. It had a rhythm now, as did the grunts and groans. The sound terrified her. But what was truly horrible were those tiny, desperate fingers pressed under the front door of her home.
Straining fingers.
Straining to reach her.
Her voice caught in her throat as blood began to trickle out from beneath the door. Of course the blood would eventually flow out. There was so much. It had been everywhere when she had stood in the doorway of Benjamin's bedroom. The walls had been splashed red.
She covered her mouth with her hand. Another wave of chills flowed over her as her knees literally knocked together.
The rhythm changed with a new beat. A second set of fists banged against the door.
Through the thick, lead glass of the door she could see the dim outline of her husband's body. It was distorted by the thick smears of blood on the other side. She stared at it long enough to make out Lloyd's misshapen hands battering against the glass, then her gaze was drawn down to those tiny fingers scrabbling so desperately toward her.
She really should have insisted on Lloyd putting down weather stripping.
An angry howl from the other side of the door made her jump and her thick raven hair fell into her face. With trembling hands she pushed back her tresses. Her gaze did not move from those tiny fingers.
The pool of blood was slowly spreading toward her bare feet.
She should move.
But where?
The tiny fingers were now raw, tips of bone showing and yet they still sought her out.
There was a loud thunk! to her left and her gaze shot over to the window beside her. Mikey stood in the window hissing at her as he beat on the window with his fists. His torn lips were drawn back in a grimace as his dead eyes latched onto her hungrily.
"Why, Mikey, why?" Her voice was a plaintive whisper.
Why had her twelve-year-old son rushed back to try to fight his father?
Why hadn't he run when she had screamed at him to follow her?
Why wouldn't the pounding end?
Clutching her head, she swayed slightly. She felt something cold touch her toe and looked down to see thick blood welling around it. Stepping back, her gaze slid back to the fingers pressed under the front door. The tips of the tiny fingers were raw and skinless.
"Benjamin, please stop," she whispered.
He always did this. Every time she went to the bathroom, the persistent three-year-old would be on her heels. She could never relax and just go. She would have to talk to him as he lay outside the bathroom, one eye pressed against the crack, his tiny chubby fingers pressed under the door.
Was one eye pressed against the crack under the front door now?