...and the house was dark when she came home. This was unusual; it was only eleven o'clock. She expected her parents to be up watching the news. As was her routine, she dropped her purse on a chair in the living room, and headed for the refrigerator. She switched on the light as she entered the kitchen, and was startled by something that didn't belong. The image reached the primal areas of her brain a split second before hitting the cerebral parts, causing immediate panic before anything concrete had registered. A quick glimpse was all she had before she turned and fled. It was all she needed, for in the kitchen, a tall bald man in sunglasses leaned against the counter. He wore a ragged jean jacket and a white t-shirt. The shirt was splattered with blood, evidently the same blood that coated the butcher knife he was holding.

The smart thing for Leslie to do would be to run out the front door, but she ran down the hall instead, to her parents room. Passing Becky's room, she caught herself on the doorjamb, intending to grab her sister. Then the whole family could climb out the back window. It had not yet occurred to her that it may be too late.

Becky's bed was empty.

Without breathing, she continued to her parents bedroom, reaching the door in one long stride. The door was shut, and Leslie wrenched the knob and pushed the door just as a vision of her family, scattered in pieces, flashed in her mind. Too late, the door opened.

They were huddled on the bed, Becky asleep between her parents, basking in the glow of the television. Her father looked up.

"Don't you ever knock?" he said.

"Dad! Shhh!" She held a trembling finger to her lips, scanning the room for something heavy to block the door.

Then suddenly Dad and Mom were laughing. Michele reached over Becky and pushed Dan off the bed.

"What?" Leslie demanded.

Her dad choked on his words, while Michele warned them both not to wake Becky. "Les, I want you know I was totally opposed to this," she said, though her giggles caused Leslie to doubt her sincerity.

"What?" Leslie said, louder. This time, her thinking parts were aware of the situation before her primal parts, but the primal urges were overpowering. She ought to be laughing with them, but it was all she could do not to jump on the bed and strangle her father.

"Les, that's Bruce," Dad finally explained. "You won't believe..."

"What!?" She stormed out of the room. Usually her father's jokes were funny, but then again, they were generally directed at people other than herself.

Dad followed her into the kitchen, apologizing.

"Les, I swear, I thought you'd think it was funny. It was, you'll see. You'll be laughing about it tomorrow."

"Dad, this is sick." She hesitated before approaching the mannequin, then ran her finger along the bloody knife blade. The knife was held in place with masking tape. "Ketchup?" she asked.

He nodded sheepishly. He was trying to appear ashamed, but Leslie could tell he was really proud of himself.

"Sick," she repeated. "I don't think other dads do this kind of stuff. I mean, rubber snakes, fake vomit, that stuff, maybe. But this...it's really sick, Dad."

"Honestly, I thought you'd come in, see him, go 'Ooooh'," he held his hands up and imitated fright, "then figure it out and that'd be it."

On closer inspection she could see his point. The mannequin had a severely chipped nose and an unnatural stance. Her anger began to ebb.

Michele came in, tying her robe. "He spent the whole evening on this," she told Leslie, rolling her eyes because it was so ridiculous.

"Hey," Leslie had an idea. "Aunt Vicky's coming over..."