The bedroom light flicked off. The pitch black in the yard lasted a few seconds before a yellow beam danced eerily across the door.

My throat near closed in terror. That was no flashlight.

The ray from Pike’s eyes narrowed and focused pencil-thin. The smell of burning wood drifted across the lawn. Transfixed in horror, I watched a smoldering hieroglyphic of a flame etch into the middle of the door. The trail of glowing embers flared and then snuffed out. Pike jumped off the stoop and sprinted down the alley.

Heart thumping, I darted to the door. My fingers stroked the spot where the little flame had erupted. The wood was still warm.

I snatched back my hand. The wood was now hot, more scorching by the second. The glowing outline of the flame reappeared. A spark shot out, soared overhead, and landed near the chimney.

Patches of shingles exploded in flames.