Lisa landed on her hands and knees on the concrete floor at the base of the stairs. Pain shot through her body at the impact. She turned, saw Billy scurrying backward against the wall of the landing. He was wearing his pajamas and trying to stand. She began to shake. Rage exploded inside her, sharpening the edge of her vision with a white fury, washing her face in such heat she forgot her initial confusion when she’d looked down the stairs and seen what had been perched atop her son. Her mind retained only one thought—her boy was being molested in some indefinable way by a stranger, and she had to save him. When Billy hesitated, she snarled, “Go, now!” then turned back to his attacker. Sounds of feet up the stairs. Good, she decided, that’s good. He didn’t need to see his mother kill a man.
That was what she was going to do. No other thought. Kill the fucking pervert and do it quickly.
Lisa’s body tightened and curled like a predator preparing to strike. The intruder was gone. No, there, a brief glimpse of a short old man in the shadows under the stairs. She’d hurt him, then. Good, she thought, be hurt. It won’t last long. Lisa stepped forward, shuffling to her right but never slowing despite the pain from her fall, moving closer toward the shape. She heard something metal drag across the floor. Like a predator she crouched low, peering into the gloom under the stairs, preparing to leap forward.
The voice returned, but from upstairs, now with a trace of humanity, of normalcy.
“Billy!”
How could the intruder have gotten upstairs? Lisa turned her gaze back toward the landing, realized it had been Will’s voice this time. He called, “Lisa!” then Billy’s sobbing voice saying Mommy was downstairs with the clown.
The clown?
She looked back toward the intruder and registered a brief flash of reflected light when the pick Will had been using to smash the floor open sailed into view a half-second before an immense, jarring pressure slammed into the side of her neck. Her throat tightened and the room tilted, spun, collapsed over her. Her shoulder popped when she skidded sideways on the concrete floor. Something heavy pulled against the side of her neck. She tried to move, could not feel her arms or legs, only the weight on her neck, her head pinned to the floor. A thing—thing, no other word, not a costume though it surely must be some kind of costume. It was sliding like a beggar across the dark floor toward her. It reached beyond her line of sight and the pressure on her neck lightened then disappeared completely. Feels so good, she thought, so good. Wet heat spilled across the side of her head. The room darkened, more, more. Warmth filled her skull. My head is filling with blood, or maybe it’s draining. I can’t move my body, can’t feel my body. The dead thing slid around on the floor and as it did, Lisa understood, without caring, that it had no legs. Its face pressed up to hers, peeling nose touching her own. Thunder in her ears, hard to hear. It was talking, “…ruined my visit with my… ” Darker, the room, darker. Hard to see, now. “No more meddling…” then it slid away, dragging the pick with it, disappearing under the stairs. Someone coming downstairs. No, no, watch out, she thought, unsure who she was talking to, then fell forever into the silent dark.