The Intruder

Liz pulled the key out of the ignition and got out of the car.

“What are we doing for Frankie’s next birthday party?” Amy asked as she left the passenger side.

"Honestly, I have no idea," answered Liz. "We'll think of something."

The two women hurried their way to the metal garden gate facing their ranch-style home. “He didn’t like Olive Garden, so the next birthday plan is up to you,” said Liz. Her son had always been picky about his food and she was hoping he would outgrow it eventually.

"How about Chuck E Cheese?" asked Amy. "Frankie loved the dancing rat. He wouldn't stop talking about him for a week."

"That's not a bad idea," said Liz as she unlocked the gate and lifted the latch. "We could invite Frankie's friend from school."

In front of them, the grey slate pathway leading into the yard was dimly lit, giving Liz goosebumps. She could feel an eerie vibe in the air as the two sauntered to the front door. She tried to ignore it.

Amy giggled. "I know! It would be adorable to see them in their little suits. The photos would be a hoot."

Liz pulled a red key from her purse and shoved it into the door lock. As she prepared to twist the lock, there was a muffled sound that caught her attention, like furniture being moved. Thump. Thump. A pause. Thump.

"What..." whispered Liz.

She stopped to listen. At first, the thought came to her that she was probably hearing her neighbors moving stuff around in the house next to hers. They usually made a racket when they had visitors for parties, especially at night. But the sound was louder and closer than usual.

The more she focused in on it, the more it became clear that whatever was making the noise, it was happening right behind her door.

When Amy caught up to her, she came bantering carelessly up the steps behind her. “Hey, so Kevin wanted to know if you were free this w—”

It took Liz raising her hand and waving it around like she was trying to swat a fly for Amy to stop talking.

“What?” muttered Amy. “What are you doing?”

“I think there’s someone in the house,” Liz said in a low quivering voice.

“Wait, really?"

“Shh,” Liz hissed, trying to listen for the noise. She tried to make out what was happening beyond the door just from the sounds alone. “Should we call the police?” asked Amy, breaking the silence. Another few minutes came and went, but nothing. Not another sound.

Liz hesitated at the front door, the red key gripped tightly in her hand. When the noise came again—closer this time—she made a split-second decision. Dropping her purse on the ground, she turned and rushed to the garage, where the same key unlocked the cabinet containing her late father’s old pistol.

Amy watched her run to the garage and then come back again. "What are you doing?"

“Maybe I was just hearing things, but just in case,” Liz answered, picking up her purse and putting the pistol inside it. "Come on."

Amy hesitated for a bit, but eventually followed her inside.

The darkness inside the house made every silhouette and shadow look immediately threatening. Each room swallowed whatever light managed to make it just a few feet past the door. As the two scared women made their way into the interior, every shape and object took the form of a menacing figure. Huddled together and hugging the wall, Liz and Amy tiptoed across the kitchen, feeling around for the nearest light switch. “I can’t see a goddamn thing,” whispered Amy as she bumped into several things.

The further they got away from the door, the more objects they smacked into by accident. “Ow,” howled Liz, hitting her knee on something solid with a sharp edge. After a few minutes of wandering around, Liz touched something small and rectangular that was protruding from the wall. She flipped the switch and instantly the room became bathed in light.

“Finally!” exclaimed Amy. “Jesus. That took way longer than it should’ve.”

Their gaze searched the house for anything out of place. As they panned to their living room, there, in front of their dining table, stood a hooded figure wearing a ski mask and holding a revolver with a gloved hand. He was already aiming it at Amy.

At that moment, it was as if time had stopped. Liz raised her hands. Her heart felt like it was about to burst through her chest. The masked man stood there, looking at them with his expressionless disguise for seconds that felt like years.

The stranger began walking toward them slowly, still aiming the gun. Liz tried to back up but felt a wall behind her. She was stuck.

"Please. Don't hurt us," whimpered Amy.

"Don't. Move," the figure commanded.

"Who are you?" asked Liz.

“Give me your phones,” the man said in a calm but deliberate voice. “Now.”

Amy did as she was told, slowly reaching into her jeans pocket and pulling out her iPhone. She tossed it a few feet in front of the man. The phone smacked flat on the wooden floor.

“Good,” he said, and then aimed the weapon at Liz, who still had her hands up. “Now you."

“Alright,” Liz agreed. “Take whatever you want, but please, just let us go. We're not—”

“Shut up!” the man shouted, more hostility in his voice now. “Give me the damn phone.”

“It’s in my purse,” Liz said, managing to retain her composure. She slowly moved her hand into the bag. “I’m taking it out, okay?”

"Who else is coming? Anyone outside waiting?"

While the man waited for an answer and waved the gun at their faces, Liz’s mind raced. She wasn’t just fighting for herself—Frankie needed her. His laugh, his morning hugs, his excitement over that stupid dancing rat at Chuck E. Cheese—they flashed through her mind like photographs. She couldn’t let him lose his mother.

Her fingers found the gun in her purse. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, and pulled it out.

It took only a moment, but by the time the man noticed the gun, it was all over. Two gunshots rang out. One from her. One from him.

Amy screamed.

Liz fell on the ground, something wet and red dripping from her right shoulder. When the pain finally came, it was too much for her senses to handle and it lulled her vision. She closed her eyes, embracing the darkness that followed.

Muffled voices woke her. When she opened her eyes again, she found herself in a hospital bed. Amy was there, sitting in a chair next to her and reading some old magazine. Brian, Amy's boyfriend, was there too.

“Where am I?” Liz said with a hoarse voice.

“Liz!” Amy exclaimed with a nervous smile on her face. “You're awake!"

Brian got up from his chair and walked nearer to the bed. "You've been here all night after surgery. That bastard who broke into your house shot you.”

Liz frowned and searched for the wound in her left shoulder, which to her astonishment, was taped with layers of gauze now. She winced as a sharp pain shot from her arm where the bullet had pierced her skin. “Did they catch him?”

“Liz,” Amy said, her voice taking a more serious tone. “He didn’t make it. They took his body to the morgue.”

“Good," Liz replied. "I hope he rots in hell.”

Amy crossed her arms and sighed. “Hey. Next time we hear strange noises, we call the police, okay?"

“Okay.”

Liz’s shoulder ached every time she shifted in the hospital bed, and the strong smell of antiseptic made her stomach churn. Despite the discomfort, she was glad to be awake—and alive. Minutes turned into hours and several doctors came and went. Amy hadn’t left her side since last night; she was protective to the point of being overbearing, fussing about pillows and water cups as though Liz were a child. Brian hovered too, looking anxiously at the monitors beeping beside her.

A few hours later, a police officer named Detective Howard arrived, all somber eyes and professional courtesy. He gently explained the details of the case: the intruder had a record of petty theft and break-ins, but no one knew why he’d chosen their house. Maybe he assumed it was empty. Maybe he didn’t care if it was or not. Liz shuddered at the thought that pure chance had nearly cost her her life.

“You did what you had to do to protect yourself,” Detective Howard assured her quietly. “No charges against you. The coroner’s report is already underway, so this case will wrap up soon.”

Liz nodded. She had never wanted to shoot anyone. But in that moment, it had been their lives—or his.

And though the night had threatened to end in tragedy, there was still tomorrow. There was Frankie’s next birthday, a bit of healing, and a spark of hope that life, fragile as it was, would go on—thanks to her decision to fight back.

She could live with that.