don't turn your back || paul lahote

The storm was a brutal symphony, thunder slamming against the windows like furious fists. Eight-year-old Tamara Shaw sat cross-legged, a weak flashlight illuminating a crumpled coloring book she’d long ceased to color. The house felt too quiet, devoid of the familiar sounds of her mother’s presence.

Her mother sat stiffly on the couch, eyes fixed on the front door. From the kitchen, a clatter, then her father moved, jaw clenched, posture alert. "Something’s here," he’d said, before disappearing into the downpour.

Then the front window shattered. Glass burst inwards, and a tall, unnaturally pale figure stepped into the room, smiling in a way that wasn’t a smile at all. Her mother shoved Tamara behind her, steel in her voice, yelling, "Run, run, run!" But Tamara couldn't move, rooted by terror.

All she could do was watch. Her mother fought fiercely, even as the thing lifted her by the throat, playing with its food. Until a sickening crack, not from the storm, echoed through the room. Her mother hit the floor, bent wrong.

"Mum?" Tamara’s voice was a whimper. "Mum, get up."

The creature turned slowly towards her. Then, a primal roar, and her father, transformed into a monstrous, scaled beast, exploded through the back door. The intruder vanished. Her father dropped to his knees beside her mother's lifeless form.

"I was too late," he whispered, his face a twist of grief and fury. Tamara stood frozen, a flashlight beam trembling across the floor. Her feet were wet, she realized. Wet with blood.

That night, Tamara Shaw stopped being a child. She never finished that coloring page.