They’re coming. (It’s coming?) A storm gathers. Evening settles in. It is darker in the house than outside. But you know that the night advances along with the storm and the night brings a terror with it. You are but a scared child. Mother claims the doors are already locked but you know that it cannot be true. You can feel it. You rush down the stairs against her wishes and start testing each door in that sprawling Victorian house. Does the latch on the door turn this way? or that way? You twist the knob but you can’t tell from inside. You hazard it, cracking it open to the porch and testing from the outside-in. Unlocked! You knew it! (Or had you inadvertently unlocked it yourself?) Certain that this one is locked, you shut it fast again and move on to the next door. You can hear your mother’s protests but you continue through each door, racing against the coming terror. Most of the doors open out to three-season-porches and sunrooms and solaria. But most of the doors also seem comically thin. How will they ever protect you? And on your fifth (sixth?) door — someone does slip in! A child. A little girl scarcely older than yourself. Cowering and afraid. She hides under a small table. You try to comfort her but she only shares your fears about the night and the storm, the coming terror and the unlocked doors. You hear a lock get thrown and hear the hinges of the massive front door creak. You run toward it but it is only your father. He tut-tuts you to calm you and though you tell her about the scared little girl, he cannot see her, and he leads you toward the stairs by the ear.