The Intruder

A flush of adrenaline rolls to my legs and they start to tingle. My heart rate speeds up so that I can no longer feel individual beats coming from my chest.
 
I am 33 years old, a suspicious thump in the night shouldn’t cause so much fear. Unfortunately, bravery has never been a trait of mine.
 
In the rational section of my brain, I know that the sound came from outside the house. A car door slamming in the street or a neighbor slamming their front door.
 
Tonight, I have no room for rational thoughts as I sit listening to Stephen King’s It audiobook.  I look to my wife and see that she is fast asleep.
 
It’s nothing, obviously. Everything is fine.
 
A couple of minutes pass with no mysterious noises. Relieved, I laugh at myself and how I am letting Mr. King get the best of me.
 
Then, as I am listening to Bill Denbrough and Richie Tozier escape the maniacal clown that has disguised itself as a werewolf, I can hear the bass of two voices talking downstairs in our living room.
 
I pause the audiobook and freeze, doing my best not to make a noise. It’s difficult to make out the voices over my heartbeat pounding in my ears.
 
Somebody is in my house.

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