Kevin O'Brien - Disturbed

With a click, the guest room door opened, and the man strode out to the hallway. “Okay, your turn, kid,” he announced. Chris felt the killer grab him under the arms and lift him off the floor. He caught a glimpse of Molly, who shot him a look of encouragement and nodded.

Chris grimaced in pain as the man pulled up his bound hands in back and pushed him toward his room. He thought the guy was going to break both his arms. He frantically hopped down the corridor, and it was all he could do to keep from stumbling.

“See how you like it in here, shit head,” the man grumbled, steering him toward the closet. “Teach you to fuck with me.” He swung open the door, and then shoved Chris into the closet.

Chris knocked several hangers askew. Clothes fell on top of him and dropped to the closet floor. He helplessly stumbled onto the floor as well. Desperately glancing around, he caught sight of his brown shoes — just as the door slammed shut.

Then darkness swallowed him up.

Molly’s heart broke at the sound of Erin’s stifled screams. The killer carried her to her bedroom. “There, there, now, sweetie,” he murmured. “Be a good girl. . ”

His sweet, gentle manner was somehow even crueler than if he’d been rough with her. At least, it felt that way to Molly. He seemed so icy calm and deliberate. She was terrified that he’d kill Erin before he came back for her, before she even had a chance to help the kids escape.

Alone in the hallway, Molly rolled over on the carpet — two complete revolutions — until she was lying at the top of the stairs.

She could still hear Erin’s muffled crying as the man emerged from her bedroom. Molly turned on her side and gazed up at him. “Please, don’t hurt my little boy down in the basement,” she whispered. “He’s only six.”

His cold eyes narrowed at her. A tiny smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Are you trying to tell me I missed one, stepmom?”

Molly twisted around until she was almost sitting up. “Bobby!” she screamed. “Bobby, honey, get out of the house! Run!”

He turned toward the stairs, his back to her for a moment. Molly leaned back, and then she kicked the backs of his legs with all her might.

He let out a loud yell and toppled down several steps. But he managed to grab hold of the banister halfway down. Wincing, he rubbed his elbow. “Goddamn bitch,” he muttered, shaking his head.

But then after a few moments, he chuckled and gazed up at her.

Reaching for the cuff of his navy blue trousers, he pulled it up to reveal a leather sheath strapped to his leg. He took a hunting knife out of that sheath.

Molly struggled to loosen the restraints on her wrists, but she knew it was in vain.

She watched him. He seemed to stare right into her. With the knife in his hand, he slowly came up the stairs.

“Nice try, bitch,” Chris heard the man growl.

He’d thought for sure Molly had kicked him down the stairs. Her ruse had been very convincing. If Chris hadn’t known better, he’d have thought for sure there was another kid in the house.

Now, he heard what sounded like a slap, and then a dull thud. Molly groaned in pain. Chris swallowed hard, and another wave of panic swept through him. He prayed to God that the guy hadn’t kicked her in the stomach. She was pregnant. Maybe she would live through this, but would the baby?

For some reason, it suddenly mattered to him very much that Molly was carrying his little brother or sister.

For the last few minutes, he’d blindly felt around behind his back for the shoe with the knife in it. At last he’d found it. But it took him several contortions to angle the knife correctly. He nicked his finger, and then the palm of his hand, and finally his wrist. With each little slice into his flesh, he grimaced. Tears rolled down his cheeks. The sheet strips around his wrists became damp with his blood — and even harder to cut.

He could hear Molly moaning in pain. “C’mon, stepmom,” the man grunted. “It’s your turn. Something tells me you know what’s coming up. . ”

There was a strange shuffling sound, which began to fade. Chris knew the killer was leading Molly to the master bedroom — and into the closet there. He heard him chuckling, and then silence.

Frantically, Chris kept pressing the knife blade against the blood-soaked restraint and poking the sharp end through the wet fabric. “Please, God,” he whispered. “C’mon. . ” He maneuvered the knife some more, and heard a tiny ripping sound. Finally, he tore through the tattered restraints and rubbed his sore wrists.

His shoulders ached, and the little cuts on his hands stung, but Chris didn’t care. Working in the dark, he quickly hacked through the linen strips around his ankles. He could hear a knocking sound. It might have been Mrs. Corson banging against the guest room closet, but he wasn’t sure.

He struggled to his feet and opened the closet door. It creaked on the hinges. His legs were a little wobbly, and his side ached from when the man had kicked him. Clutching the small steak knife, he glanced around his bedroom for something else he could use to defend himself. He was going up against a guy with two handguns. And if the newspaper stories were correct, the man carried a knife, too. Most of the Cul-de-sac Killer’s victims had been stabbed to death or strangled.

Chris spotted his Louisville Slugger in the corner of his bedroom. He slipped the knife in his pocket, and then grabbed the baseball bat. He crept toward his doorway.

Peering down the empty hall, he noticed the light on in the master bedroom. The killer was in there with Molly, but Chris couldn’t see them — only their shadows crawling across the bedroom wall.

With the bat resting on his shoulder, he quickly crept into Erin’s room. He took a deep breath, and braced himself for what he might find behind the closed closet door. He opened it, and let out a sigh. Curled up on the floor amid her shoes, Erin helplessly glanced at him. She tried to talk past the duct tape covering her mouth.

“You have to be quiet, and keep still, okay, peanut?” Chris said, under his breath. Taking the knife from his pocket, he cut the restraints around her ankles and wrists. The rope Mrs. Corson had used was harder to cut than the sheets, and it seemed to take forever. It was no help that Erin kept squirming, and he was afraid of nicking her. All the while, he could hear Mrs. Corson next door, banging at the closet door.

Finally, he cut through the ropes. “Leave the tape over your mouth for now, okay?” he whispered to his little sister. “It’ll hurt if I rip it off, and I don’t want you crying. We have to be really quiet. Now, let me give you a piggyback ride. C’mon, all aboard. . ”

Erin was trembling as she grabbed him by the shoulders and climbed on his back. Chris quietly moved to her door and checked the empty hallway.

“I’m saving you for last, bitch,” he heard the man say. His voice came from the master bedroom. “I want you to know how it feels to stay in there for a while. And then I’m going to take my sweet time with you.”

Chris crept across the hallway to the stairs. With her arms around his neck, Erin clung so tightly she was almost choking him. The steps creaked as he hurried down them, but Mrs. Corson was still kicking against the closet door — and that was louder. She started to scream and cry. At the bottom of the stairs, Chris leaned the bat against the wall. With his free hand, he reached inside the pocket of his jacket, which hung on the newel post. He took out his cell phone and shoved it into his pocket with the knife. Skulking to the front door, he opened it, then went back and retrieved his bat.

The chilly night air felt good as he ducked outside. He closed the door, but made sure the lock didn’t click. He would be going back in there.