My father turned off the headlights, letting the truck roll to a stop in the shadows of the gravel driveway.

“Stay here,” he whispered, reaching into the glove compartment.

He pulled out his service weapon, checking the magazine with a soft click.

“No,” I said, opening my door.

“I’m coming with you.”

He looked at me for a long second, then nodded slowly.

“Stay behind me,” he said.

We stepped out into the damp, cold air, the rain falling steadily now.

The gravel crunched softly beneath our feet as we approached the dark house.

Only a single light was burning on the second floor.

We reached the wooden steps of the front porch.

The front door was slightly ajar, a sliver of yellow light spilling out onto the wet floorboards.

Inside, the house was completely silent.

My father pushed the door open with the barrel of his gun.

The hinges let out a long, slow creak.

We stepped into the dark foyer, the smell of damp wood and old paper filling the air.

Suddenly, a floorboard creaked upstairs.

A shadow moved across the yellow light at the top of the staircase.