He sat in the same chair he always sat in on a Saturday evening. It was old, ripped and faded, and it creaked when it swiveled, but he loved it anyway. His fingers tapped the keys innocently, as he busied himself on various entertainment and social networking sites. He paid no attention to the time ticking away on the clock on the wall, nor to his growing fatigue or his growling stomach.

A slamming door caught his attention. The tapping stopped. His eyes snapped to his bedroom door, which was still slightly open, as he had left it. A snapping branch. Shuffling. A rattle.

Terrified, he leaped up out of his chair, noticing the pitch blackness outside and the late hour. So late in fact, that it was early. Slowly he crept out the door and down the hall toward the kitchen, clutching a ball point pen in his right hand and a weak flashlight in his left. As he neared the open doorway, the rattling grew louder, and his heartbeat grew faster.

As he turned the corner, he stopped suddenly. A baby? The pen dropped.

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