"KNIFE AND ROPE":
It was late, close to midnight, and the rain pounded hard against our old house. I couldn't sleep because of all the noise outside. My room was upstairs, and I shared the floor with my parents and my little brother. Downstairs, my sister had her own space with those big glass doors that opened to the backyard. She took medicine every night for bad dreams, the kind that made her scream sometimes. The stuff knocked her out cold, like she was in a deep sleep nothing could wake her from.
I lay there in bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to the wind whistle through the trees. Our family had moved into this place a few months back, but we never got around to changing the locks. Dad said we'd do it soon, but life got busy. He was a tough guy, used to be in the military, and he kept a couple of handguns hidden away just in case. Mom didn't like them much, but she understood why he had them. We all did.
Suddenly, a loud bang echoed from downstairs. It sounded like someone had slammed those glass doors wide open. Right after, the house alarm started blaring, that sharp beep-beep-beep that made my ears ring. My heart started racing fast. I sat up straight, wondering if the wind had done it. But then I heard footsteps—heavy ones—running across the floor below.
"Dad!" I whispered to myself, but he was already moving. I heard his door creak open down the hall. He burst into my room without knocking, his face serious in the dim light from the hallway. He was just in his t-shirt and shorts, no time to dress. "Stay quiet," he said low, his voice steady like always. He grabbed something from under his bed in the next room—I knew it was one of the guns—and came back, handing me the smaller one he kept in a locked box. "You remember how to use this? Follow me, but stay behind."
I nodded, my hands shaking a little as I held it. We'd practiced before, out in the yard on quiet days. Safety first, aim careful, all that. But this felt real, too real. My brother poked his head out of his room, eyes wide. "What's going on?" he asked, his voice small.
"Get back in bed and lock your door," Dad told him. "Don't come out till I say." My brother disappeared quick.
Dad led the way down the stairs, moving slow and careful, like he was checking every shadow. The alarm kept going, loud and annoying. Rain splashed in through the open doors—I could see it from the top step, puddles forming on the wood floor. My sister's room was right there at the bottom, door half open. Dad pushed it wider with his foot, gun pointed ahead. "Anyone in here?" he called out, firm but not yelling.
My sister stirred in her bed, sitting up slow. Her eyes were glassy from the medicine. "Is my soup ready?" she mumbled, like she was still dreaming. It was weird, but that's how she got sometimes.
Dad glanced at me over his shoulder. "Check the kitchen. Turn off the alarm. I'll stay with her."
I crept into the kitchen, flipping the light on. Everything looked normal—counters clean, fridge humming soft. I punched the code into the alarm panel on the wall, and the beeping stopped. Silence hit hard, except for the rain outside. The back window looked out over the yard, dark and wet. I peered out, but couldn't see much past the porch light.
That's when Dad shouted from the bedroom. "Get out! Now!" A shot rang out—bang!—loud like thunder inside the house. I jumped, almost dropping the gun. A man's voice grunted in pain, not Dad's. "Ah!" he yelped, sounding surprised.
I ran back to the doorway. Dad stood over my sister's bed, gun still aimed down. Under the bed, a man scrambled out, tall and skinny, dressed in dark clothes soaked from the rain. He had a knife in one hand, shiny and sharp, and a coil of rope dangling from the other. His face was pale, eyes wild like a trapped animal. He bolted for the open doors, slipping on the wet floor but catching himself. Dad fired again—bang!—but the man dodged out into the yard, vaulting over the low fence like it was nothing.
"Sis, you okay?" I asked, rushing to her side. She blinked at me, confused. "What happened? Why is it wet in here?"
"Someone broke in," Dad said, breathing heavy. He lowered the gun but kept watch on the doors. "He was hiding right under your bed. Must have come through the glass when the alarm went off—waited for a chance."
My sister rubbed her eyes. "I didn't hear anything. Was he... going to hurt me?"
Dad nodded grim. "Looks like it. Knife and rope—bad news. But he's gone now."
I called the police from the landline, my voice shaky as I told them what happened. "A man broke into our house. My dad shot at him. He's run off, but please come quick."
The operator stayed calm. "Stay inside, lock everything. Officers are on the way. About five minutes."
We closed the glass doors, but they wouldn't latch right—the frame was bent from the kick. Dad pushed a chair against them. "Help me move the dresser," he said to me. We shoved it over, blocking the way in. My sister huddled under her blankets, starting to wake up more. "Did he touch me? I don't remember."
"No," Dad assured her. "You were safe. The alarm scared him, I think. Hid quick."
The police showed up fast, lights flashing blue and red through the windows. Two officers came in, wet from the rain, asking questions. "What did he look like?" one asked Dad.
"Tall, maybe six feet. Thin build. Dark hair, I think. Wearing a black jacket and jeans. Had a knife—left it behind." Dad pointed to where it lay on the floor, next to the rope.
The officer picked them up careful, with gloves. "We'll check for prints. Any idea how he got in?"
"Those doors," I said. "We heard the bang. Old locks—our fault for not changing them."
They searched the yard with flashlights, but the man was long gone. "We'll patrol the area," the other officer said. "File a report. Get those locks fixed first thing tomorrow."
After they left, we couldn't sleep. Mom came down—she'd been hiding upstairs with my brother—and we all sat in the living room, lights on bright. "What if he comes back?" my brother asked, voice trembling.
"He won't," Dad said, but he kept the gun close. "We're ready now."
My sister sipped some water, looking scared for the first time. "I thought I heard scratching earlier, before the bang. Like nails on glass. But I figured it was a branch."
"Could have been him testing the door," Dad said. "Waiting for the right moment."
The rain kept coming down hard, making everything feel closed in. I kept glancing at the windows, imagining eyes staring back from the dark. What if he'd grabbed her before we got there? The knife, the rope—it made my skin crawl. He'd been inches away, breathing quiet under the bed while she slept.
Days passed, and we got new locks, stronger doors. Even added bars on the windows. The police never found the man, though they said he'd hit other houses in the neighborhood before. Stole stuff mostly, but this time... it felt personal, like he'd picked her room on purpose.
Now, when storms come at night, I lie awake listening.
"GONE BEFORE":
I called my sister Anna that Friday morning, but she didn't pick up. We were close, always checking in, especially with the big storm heading our way. She had texted me earlier about picking up her kids from her ex-husband David's place. By afternoon, when she still didn't answer, worry started building in me. I drove over to her townhouse, but no one was there. Her car was gone too.
"Anna? You home?" I shouted as I knocked hard on the door. Nothing. I used the spare key she gave me and went inside. Everything looked normal—her purse on the counter, but her phone wasn't around. I called her boyfriend Tom.
"Tom, have you seen Anna? She left your place this morning, right?"
"Yeah, she did," Tom said, sounding a bit off. "She was going to get the kids. Said something about maybe heading out of town because of the weather. Why?"
"She hasn't shown up anywhere. David's saying she never came by. I'm getting a bad feeling."
We agreed to meet at David's house. David was her ex, a guy who worked in shipping. They split a few months back, but it was messy. He always acted like he still owned her. When I got there, David opened the door with the kids behind him, looking calm.
"Hey, Alex," he said. "What's going on? Anna didn't come get them. I figured she changed her mind with the rain starting."
The kids, little Ben and Lily, ran up. "Uncle Alex!" Ben hugged my leg. "Where's Mom?"
"She's just running late, buddy," I told him, trying to smile. But inside, something felt wrong. David invited me in, offered coffee, but his eyes kept darting to the window.
Tom arrived soon after, and we all sat in the living room. "David, did she call or text you after that early message?" Tom asked.
David shook his head. "Just the one about coming over. Nothing else. You think something happened?"
We called the police, but they said with the storm coming, they were swamped. "Wait a bit," the officer on the phone said. "People get delayed in bad weather. If she's still missing tomorrow, come in."
But I couldn't wait. As evening came, the wind picked up hard, and rain hit the windows like bullets. I left the kids with David and went with Tom to check places she might be. We drove to her office first. Locked up tight. Then to a few friends' houses. No sign.
By eleven at night, the streets were flooding. Water rushed over curbs, and trees bent sideways. Tom and I pulled over near a park she liked. "What if she had an accident?" Tom said, his voice tight.
"Or what if David knows more," I replied. "He seemed too calm."
We decided to go back to David's. But on the way, my phone rang. It was David. "Alex, the kids are asking for her. Any luck?"
"No," I said. "We're coming back. Stay put."
When we got there around midnight, the power flickered. Water pooled in the driveway. David let us in, but he looked sweaty now, not so calm. The kids were asleep upstairs.
"Let's think this through," I said. We sat at the kitchen table. "Anna left your place this morning, Tom. Then texted David. What happened after?"
David leaned forward. "She never got here. Maybe she stopped somewhere."
Tom stared at him. "You two argued a lot lately. About the divorce, the kids. Did she say anything that upset you?"
David's face hardened. "What are you saying? I loved her. We'd even talked about getting back together."
"That's a lie," Tom snapped. "She told me you wouldn't let go. Kept calling her, showing up uninvited."
I tried to calm them. "Guys, focus. We need to find her."
But the argument grew. David stood up. "You think I did something? Get out!"
We left, but outside, in the pouring rain, I turned to Tom. "He's hiding something. Let's check that motel near his work. Anna mentioned he went there sometimes when they fought."
The drive was awful. Water splashed up to the car doors, and branches cracked overhead. We reached the Motel 6 just after midnight. The parking lot was turning into a lake. And there, half-submerged, was Anna's black car.
"Oh no," Tom whispered. We waded through the water to it. Unlocked, keys inside. No sign of her.
"Call the police now," I said. My hands shook as I dialed. While waiting, we looked around. Trash cans overflowed with floating garbage. Something caught my eye—a bag snagged on a fence, like someone tossed it quick.
The police came, lights flashing through the rain. "We'll tow it when the water drops," an officer said. "But with this flood, it might take days."
Back at my place, Tom and I couldn't sleep. "David parked that car here," Tom said. "I know it."
The next days blurred. Floods rose higher, roads closed. We searched where we could—woods near her house, ditches by the highway. Volunteers joined, but the water hid everything. I kept calling David. "Any word?" he'd ask, voice flat.
One night, a week later, I went out alone. Midnight again, rain still falling. I drove to those woods off the access road, where Anna liked to walk. Water lapped at the trees. I got out with a flashlight, boots sinking in mud.
"Anna!" I called. No answer. Then, a snap—like a branch breaking. I swung the light. Nothing. But the hairs on my arms stood up. Was someone out here?
Another noise, closer. Footsteps in the water? I backed up slow. "Who's there?"
Silence. Then my phone buzzed—David. "Alex, stop searching. It's dangerous."
"How do you know I'm searching now?" I asked.
He paused. "Just a guess. Come home."
I hung up, ran to the car. Locked the doors fast. Drove away shaking. He was watching me somehow.
Days dragged. Police questioned David more. He failed a lie test. Then, two weeks in, he broke. Called me crying. "Alex, I did it. I hurt her. We fought that morning. She came over, said she didn't love me anymore. I grabbed her... I didn't mean to."
"Where is she?" I demanded.
He told me—the woods I'd searched. Police went, found her wrapped in plastic, hidden under branches.
David got arrested. Sentenced long time. But that night in the woods, alone with the flood rising, knowing a killer was loose—that fear stays with me. The storm hid his tracks, almost let him get away. I still hear those footsteps when rain falls hard.
"NO FOOTPRINTS":
I got a call from Robert early that morning. His voice was flat, like he was reading from a list. "Alex, Anna didn't come home last night. She went out for a walk after we talked about some things. Have you heard from her?"
I sat up in bed, rubbing my eyes. Anna was my sister, always the one to keep things together for her kids. "What do you mean she went for a walk? It's freezing out there. What time was this?"
"Around ten-thirty," he said. "We had a disagreement about the kids and money. She said she needed to clear her head. Took her phone and laptop, left her purse behind."
That didn't sound right. Anna never left without her purse, especially with the kids asleep upstairs. The boy was ten, the girl eight, and the little one just five. "I'll come over right now," I told him. "Call the police if she doesn't show up soon."
I drove to their house in Silverthorne. Snow covered the roads, making it hard to see far ahead. When I arrived, Robert let me in. He looked tired but not worried enough. "She'll turn up," he said. "She does this sometimes."
The kids were up, eating breakfast. The boy asked, "Uncle Alex, where's Mom?" I knelt down. "She's out running an errand, kiddo. She'll be back soon." But inside, fear started building.
We checked her usual places. The dance studio where she taught classes. Empty. The coffee shop down the street. No one saw her. Her phone went straight to voicemail. "Anna, call me back," I left a message. "We're all waiting."
Robert joined the search later that day. Friends came too. Emily, who owned the studio, hugged me tight. "This isn't like her," she whispered. "She would never leave the kids like this."
As the day went on, the cold bit harder. We walked the paths near the Blue River, calling her name. "Anna! Anna!" Nothing but echoes. Night fell early, and the search stopped. Back at the house, Robert made sandwiches. "She might be with that friend of hers," he said.
"What friend?" I asked.
He shrugged. "Chris. The one from dance practice."
I knew about Chris. Anna had told me things were tough with Robert. She mentioned meeting someone who made her feel alive again. But she ended it, she said. Wanted to fix her marriage for the kids.
The next day, police got involved. Officer Barger asked questions. "When did you last see her, Robert?"
"Ten-thirty," he repeated. "She walked out the door."
"Did you argue?" Barger pressed.
"Yes, but nothing big," he said. "I gave her space."
Barger looked at me. "Any history of fights?"
I hesitated. Anna had confided in me once. "He got rough before," I said quietly. "Grabbed her arm, yelled threats. She filed papers to keep him away, but took them back."
Robert glared. "That's not true. We were working on things."
The search grew. Volunteers combed the woods, the riverbanks. Snow kept falling, covering tracks. I imagined Anna out there, alone, cold. What if she slipped? What if someone took her?
On the third day, Emily called me. "Alex, I found something. Anna's laptop history shows emails to Chris. She wrote she loved him, but didn't send it."
I met Chris at his office. He was a tall guy, looked nervous. "We were close," he admitted. "But I ended it that day. Told her I was staying with my wife."
"Did she seem upset?" I asked.
"Yes," he said. "Cried in the parking lot. But she said she'd be okay."
His wife, Linda, stood nearby. "I knew about it," she said bitterly. "Wished her gone, but I didn't do anything."
Suspicion grew. Police questioned them both. Chris and Linda said they were home together that night. Their stories matched.
Back at the house, the kids clung to me. The girl whispered, "Is Mom lost?" I held her. "We're finding her, sweetie."
That night, I couldn't sleep. Robert paced the kitchen. "Why would she leave like this?" he muttered.
"Maybe she didn't leave," I said, watching him. His eyes shifted away.
The fourth day, Friday, a volunteer shouted from the river. "Found something!" My legs went weak as I ran. There, in the shallow water, frozen solid, was Anna. Her body, bruised, clothes gone except a shirt on one arm. I turned away, sick.
Police said she was hit on the head, choked, then left in the water while still breathing. The cold finished it. "Who could do this?" I demanded.
Barger pulled me aside. "We're looking at everyone close. Robert waited too long to call. No footprints outside, like someone carried her."
Days turned to weeks. The kids moved in with me. "When can we go home?" the little one asked.
"Soon," I lied. But doubt ate at me. Robert acted strange at the service. Cried loud, then stopped quick. Emily confronted him. "You know more," she said.
He shook his head. "I loved her."
Police dug deeper. Found old stories from Robert's past. Women he dated said he got violent, choked them, threatened to kill. Anna had told a judge the same, years back.
Eight months later, they arrested Robert. "We have enough," Barger said. "No direct proof, but it all points to him."
At trial, witnesses spoke. Chris testified about the affair. Linda admitted her anger. But the focus stayed on Robert. His calm that night, the delay, the lies about no violence.
The kids didn't testify, too young. But I did. "She feared him," I said. "Wanted out, but stayed for the children."
Robert took the stand. "I didn't hurt her," he claimed. "Someone else did."
The jury didn't believe him. Guilty on all counts. Sentenced to over a hundred years.
Even now, I watch the kids play, and wonder. The fear from those days lingers. You think you know people, but darkness hides close. I lock the doors tight, listen for footsteps in the snow. What if evil is right next door?
"THE STORM":
I never thought our home by the beach would turn against us like that. My husband Frank and I ran a wrecker service in Crystal Beach, Texas. We helped folks tow their cars out of rising water all week as the big hurricane named Ike got closer. By Friday morning, the roads were already under water, and the bridge we needed to cross had washed out. We tried to leave, but it was too late. We were stuck.
Frank looked at me and said, "Deeann, we have to stay put. Let's get the animals ready." We had two dogs, a macaw, a cockatoo, and a bunch of smaller birds in an aviary outside. I went out and opened the cages for the cockatiels and lovebirds. Most flew away, but four lovebirds stayed behind, too scared to go. I felt bad leaving them, but there was no time.
The water started creeping up fast. At first, it was just a few feet under our house, which sat on tall stilts, about 16 feet high. By noon, the wind was pushing hard, maybe 35 miles an hour, and the water was four feet deep. Frank called some news people on the phone. He told them, "The waves are roaring loud. We're hoping the Coast Guard can get to us." But no one came.
By two in the afternoon, the water was over five feet and still rising. It lapped at the edges of our porch. Frank grabbed a saw and cut a hole in the ceiling of our living room. "We need to get up to the attic," he said. "It's our only chance if the floor gives way." We climbed up there with the dogs, the macaw, and the cockatoo. The attic was tiny, just a crawl space with rafters. No floor, only beams to hold on to. We squeezed in, sitting on those thin wooden beams, our legs dangling through the hole we cut.
As evening came, the wind got stronger, up to 60 miles an hour. The house shook like it was alive and angry. Water sloshed below us, two feet from the floorboards. Frank held my hand tight. "This is bad," he whispered. "Real bad." I nodded, trying to stay calm for him. We prayed quietly together. "God, please keep us safe," I said. He echoed, "Amen."
Then the real trouble started. Around midnight, the full force hit. The house lifted up like a boat on a huge wave, then slammed back down on the stilts. Boom! It happened again and again. Each time, I thought the whole thing would break apart. Through the hole in the ceiling, we could see the waves crashing into the rooms below. They tore at the walls, ripping them right off and carrying them away into the dark. The sounds were awful—cracking wood, rushing water, things smashing against the house from outside.
Frank peered down and said, "Deeann, look—the bathroom's gone. The porch too." I didn't want to look, but I did. The water was inside now, swirling around our furniture, pulling it out to sea. Our home was coming apart piece by piece. The birds that stayed behind were gone, swept away. I held onto the rafter with one hand and Frank with the other. The dogs whimpered, pressed against us. The macaw squawked once, then went quiet, like it knew to save its energy.
Another big lift — higher this time. The house groaned, and I felt it tilt. "Frank!" I cried. "We're going over!" He pulled me close. "Hold on, baby. Just hold on." We braced as it crashed down again. Something heavy hit the underside, maybe a log or part of another house. The stilts creaked, but they held. Barely.
The darkness made it worse. No lights anywhere, just the roar all around us. I imagined what was out there — other homes breaking, people screaming maybe, but we couldn't hear them over the noise. Frank said, "Deeann, we're going to die." His voice broke a little. I squeezed his hand. "If we do, baby, it's been good. I'll see you in heaven." But we kept praying. "Dear God, let us live through this." Over and over.
Hours passed like that, clinging in the black, the house shaking and falling apart below. I thought about our daughter who had passed away years before — her ashes were down there somewhere, lost now. It hurt deep inside, but I pushed it away. Survival first. The wind howled like a monster, and the waves kept coming, each one seeming bigger than the last.
Finally, after what felt like forever, the lifting stopped. The water started to go down as morning came. We were still alive. Frank looked down through the hole. "The walls are all gone. It's just stilts and the roof now." Our home was a skeleton. Debris everywhere—mud, broken things, water still pooling.
Frank cleared some junk to make a way out. He found a ladder buried in the mess and set it up. We climbed down with the animals. The ground was a wreck: cars flipped, houses flattened, everything covered in slime. We had no food, no clean water. Frank scavenged what he could — a few cans from the mud, some bottles floating by.
That day, we walked the roads, looking for help. Frank spotted a man poking around in the ruins. "Hey!" Frank yelled. The man looked shady, like he was looting. Frank had a gun he grabbed from the attic. "Get out of here!" he shouted. The man ran off. It scared me — people taking advantage in the chaos.
We flagged helicopters the next day. One spotlighted us at night, but left. "Why aren't they coming?" I asked Frank. He shook his head. "Too many people need help, I guess." We waited another day, thirsty and tired, animals hungry too.
On Monday morning, a helicopter finally hovered low. A man leaned out. "We're sending a boat!" he called. Relief washed over us. The boat came, and we got on with our dogs and birds. They took us to safety.
Looking back, that night in the attic was the scariest thing ever. The storm took everything — our business, our belongings, even memories. But we made it. Frank and I held each other through it all. That's what got us out alive.