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He told himself that he shouldn’t let his imagination get fired up like this. It wasn’t healthy. There was definitely someone out there, make no mistake, but it wasn’t—it couldn’t be his mother!

But it was someone, and when whoever it was began hammering on the door again, Martin told himself that, if they didn’t stop it and go away real soon, he was going to unload both barrels of his shotgun on them without warning.

He didn’t care who it was.

Even if it was some little kid who’d lost a kitten and was going from door to door looking for it. Or some crazed drunk or drug addict, lost and, thinking he was home, pounding on the wrong door to be let in.

It didn’t matter.

Hell, even if it did matter, Martin didn’t care.

Anyone with any common sense was safe inside his own home as soon as it got dark. The only people out and about at this hour were dangerous people who deserved to die if they were going to bother decent people, like Martin, who wanted nothing but to be left alone.

He’d shoot if he had to.

He hadn’t heard the news lately, but he was sure there must have been numerous deaths—murders and accidental deaths—since the celebrations began. One more death in a city this size wasn’t even going to be noticed. Not when the police had so many other things to take care of.

Still, Martin didn’t dare to call out, much less go to the door.

Instead, he walked to the wall opposite the front door and, leaning back against the closed closet door—one of the few remaining inside the house—slid slowly down into a sitting position on the floor with his shotgun poised and aimed at the front door.

The knocking continued unabated, the blows coming more rapidly now, the heavy thumping booming louder and louder. Martin was convinced that, before long, the door would be smashed to splinters. In spite of the cold night, thin trickles of sweat ran down his face. His eyes felt like they were bugging from their sockets as he watched … and waited … wishing that the knocking would stop and the person would go away and leave him alone.

But that didn’t happen, and Martin couldn’t stop wondering who it might be. He kept tossing possible scenarios over in his mind until he thought of something that made his pulse skip a beat. He felt suddenly light-headed with anxiety.

What if it was his father, come home after all these years?

Could that be possible?

Martin had lived his whole life in this house with his mother, so if, by some extraordinary circumstance, his father was still alive, he would naturally come back here first, if only to see if his family still lived here.

Martin’s forefinger brushed lightly against the trigger of the shotgun. He grit his teeth so hard he could hear low grinding noises deep inside his head. His vision pulsed and swirled in front of him, creating a vortex of darkness spinning within deeper darkness.

The pounding on the door was so loud now that it seemed to be as much inside his head as outside. Blow after blow rained down against the wood, and each blow resonated inside Martin’s skull until he was trembling like a man wracked with fever.

Go away! he thought but didn’t dare say out loud.

Go away!

Leave me alone!

And still the knocking continued, keeping time with the painful beating of his heart, which thundered in his ears so hard it made his neck ache.

Please … For the love of God … Just go away!

But the knocking didn’t let up. It grew louder and louder until—finally—Martin realized that he was going to have to go to the door and confront whomever it was.

His body was rigid and throbbing with pain as he rose slowly to his feet. He maintained such a tight grip on his shotgun that, for a moment or two, his fingers were paralyzed, unable to move.

Martin told himself to stay in control, that he had to deal with this now or it would only get worse. He would be in serious trouble if he opened the door and the person—whoever was out there—saw even a hint of fear or hesitation on his part.

His feet dragged heavily on the wooden floor,