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Martin licked his lips and took a shuddering breath that made his chest feel like it was constricted by thick iron bands. The sour pressure in his stomach grew painfully intense, and he had to concentrate to make his arms move as he raised the shotgun and pointed it at the door.

Go away! Now! Before you regret it, Martin wanted to call out, but horrible images of his dead mother and the father he had never known filled his mind.

Could it be both of them out there on the stoop?

He felt curiously weighed down as he moved toward the door. It was like being trapped in a dream. No matter how many steps he took, the front door seemed to withdraw from him, getting farther away rather than closer.

Martin shook his head and slapped himself on the cheek, trying to convince himself that he was awake. This was real. It was really happening.

And all the while, the heavy pounding on the door continued without letting up.

Watching like a dissociated observer, Martin raised his hand and reached out for the door lock. The other hand held the shotgun at chest level, his forefinger on the trigger and already starting to squeeze.

A prickling wave of pain rolled up his arm to his shoulder as he slowly withdrew the metal clasp of the chain lock and let it drop. It made a rough, grating noise as it swung back and forth like a pendulum against the door, bouncing every time the knocking from the other side vibrated the door.

Holding his breath so long it hurt, Martin grasped the dead bolt and turned it slowly to the right. Every nerve in his body was sizzling like overloaded wires as he waited for the lock to click open.

He was swept up in a flood of vertigo and was afraid that he would pass out before he could get the door open and confront whomever was out there on his doorstep. They must have heard him undo the lock, he thought, so they would have plenty of time to run away before he got the door open.

Martin jumped when the lock clicked, sounding as sharp as the snap of a whip. He reached quickly for the doorknob, gave it a savage twist, and pulled back to throw the door open.

But the doorknob slipped from his hand as if it were greased.

Momentarily confused, Martin stood back. He was breathing so heavily his throat made a dull roaring sound. Sweat tickled his ribs as it ran down the inside of his shirt. The sound of the knocking continued, so loud now it made his vision jump in time with it.

The gun felt suddenly heavy in his hand, and he placed it on the floor, leaning it against the wall within easy reach. He wiped his sweaty palms on his pants legs before taking hold of the doorknob again and giving it another violent turn.

He heard the cylinder mechanism click. This time when he pulled back, he kept his grip, but—still—the door wouldn’t open.

Martin muttered a curse under his breath, but he could barely hear his own voice above the constant pounding on the door. He could feel the deep vibration in the palm of his hand, like a wasp sting, but he ignored it as he twisted the doorknob back and forth several times, all the while pulling back with all his strength.

Still, the door wouldn’t open.

It wouldn’t even budge.

This isn’t possible, Martin thought, sure that whoever was out there still knocking was holding the door shut with the other hand so he couldn’t open it.

Panting heavily, Martin moved to the left. Bending low, he peered out the side window. The night was dense and black except for the distant glow of fire on the horizon. As far as he could see, there was no one out there.

The doorstep was empty.

A sudden gust of wind blew a flurry of snow from the edge of the porch roof. The ice crystals glittered like diamond dust in the flickering orange glow before drifting down into the darkness. For just an instant, Martin imagined that the shower of snow had assumed a vague human form. He cleared his throat, preparing to call out, but his voice was locked up inside his chest.

The knocking continued without stopping.

Martin