Emma’s heart began to beat hard and fast, pounding in her chest with animalistic ferocity as the stranger pushed the barrel of his revolver into her mother’s head. The room was silent as she rose her hands above her head and stepped back. Emma couldn’t see her mother’s face, but she could already envision what her countenance was: hard, stern, angry, and thinking about what to do next.

Fear closed her throat and constricted her sight. She knew the stranger wasn’t to be trusted. Why hadn’t she said something? Why hadn’t she said anything? She knew the bulge in the back of Uncle Matthew’s shirt had been a revolver. She and John had seen him leaving her parents’ room. She knew something was going to happen. The guilt sat heavy in her stomach: a dense stone, a burning coal.

“Everybody stay calm,” the stranger said. His eyes were pitch-black. He looked at Emma and smiled. His grin boiled her blood and unleashed a torrent of butterflies in her stomach. There was something devilish about, something calculating and cold and evil. She could tell it was a smile that had looked down upon dying men and struggling animals. It was the kind of smile that entranced you with its wildness, and ensnared you with its deceptiveness.

The sound of rushing water was getting louder, the sound emanating from the living room.

Her mother was trying to keep her voice measured, but Emma could detect a bit of a waver in it. She had also positioned herself in front of Emma. Her arms were still raised in the air, but her hands were wavering in the air, threatening to dart one way or another if given the opportunity.

“We need t’ leave,” her mother said. “You can hear the water! The house is floodin’. If we don’t get out o’ here soon, we’ll be taken with it.”

The stranger smirked and shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t hear anything,” he said. “And I don’t see any water here. If this danger is as potent as you say, surely we would be able to see it.”

Emma looked at her brother, who as standing on her left. His jaw was locked and his eyes were determined. She followed the path of his gaze to the barrel of the gun that was still pointed at their mother. Fear flowered in her heart as she envisioned what could happen next: her brother, distraught and full of rage, rushing toward the man. Another gunshot, another burst of crimson blood. She would lose John just as quickly as she had lost her father. She wanted to say something to him, to reach out with her mind and prod his, to say I feel your pain, it’s okay, please don’t do anything stupid.

“I’m not going to spend time mincing half-baked arguments with you,” she spat. “Get that gun out of my face.”

The stranger pointed the revolver at John.

“Better?” he asked. He didn’t wait for a response. “Besides, if you leave, what will you do with Jackson’s body? Leave him here to be swallowed by the river? Leave his body without giving him a proper burial? Condemn his soul to wander the Earth without ever having the possibility of rest?”

Mary didn’t respond to the threat. Emma felt rage and sadness blooming in her own soul, both emotions swirling in their most potent and uncompressed forms. She had been playing the image of her father’s death on repeat, even though all she wanted to do was forget, to return everything to normal.

Maybe it was all a dream. Maybe she would wake up in the middle of the night and Dad would be there and he would tell her a story that would make her forget about all the weird, surreal images playing through her mind. Maybe Uncle Matthew and Grandpa would be there too, and they would be mad and scared like usual, but nobody would be dead.

It took her a moment to realize tears had started to stream down her face. They were hot and sticky, but she barely recognized either attribute. Her entire face was flushed with crimson fear. It was then that she realized that she was breathing hard; she had been so focused on the gun, and the stranger’s face, and the painful beating of her own heart that she had ignored all other senses and all other elements of the real world.

To her surprise, her hand was grasped by another about the same size as it. She looked to her right and saw Rose, who offered a kind smile. She squeezed Emma’s hand once.

“Here’s what’s going to happen,” the stranger said. “We’re all going to go out to the living room and forget any of this occurred. We’ll wait out the storm, and we’ll go our separate ways once it’s done. That will be that. As to the situation with the corpse in the living room-”

“Jackson,” her mother seethed. “You say his name.”

The stranger nodded, albeit without much conviction. “As to the situation with Jackson in the living room, we’ll bury him once the storm is up. I’d even be willing to help you with the matter. We’ll give him a good, proper funeral. I’m sure you have a Bible around here; you seem like good, God-fearing folks.”

“And we’re ‘sposed to forget it?” her mother asked. “Just like that, you think we’re goin’ to forget a man we all love?”

“Loved,” the stranger corrected. “And yes, I expect that. Unless you want two, or three, deaths to grieve over in your pitiful excuse of a house.”

“Nobody move,” Luis said.

His voice was surprisingly gruff, and when he stood he carried an aura of power with him. He walked up beside her mother and he gestured for her to stand back without. Emma saw a flash of fear spark in the stranger’s black eyes. Luis curled his right hand into a thick fist.

The stranger pushed the revolver into Luis’s chest without saying a word.

“Two women can become fatherless tonight if you would like,” the stranger said. “If you don’t like that idea, I suggest you go back to where you were sitting and hold your daughter close.”

Luis stood resolute. His fist was trembling, his knuckles white with tension as the two men stared each other down. The stranger pulled back the hammer of his revolver.

Then, Emma saw the plan: against the wall was Luis’s repeating rifle. It was the one he had arrived with, and it had been sitting in the back of the bedroom since Luis and Rose moved into it with she and Jack. It had sat against the wall without much use. Emma presumed it was loaded, but there was no need to check it and Luis never so much as looked at it when he came in the room. In fact, he seemed averse to it. She could tell he hated the thought of touching it.

When Luis had moved and gestured for her mother to step back, he had done two things: he had put himself between the stranger, herself, and Rose. He had also positioned her mother closer to the repeating rifle, close enough for her to take a few small steps while the stranger was focused on his sudden rival.

Emma’s eyes burst open with awe as she adjusted her view to look at her mother. She was standing tall, her dress draped around her body and brushing the top of the wooden floor. The repeater was pushed into her shoulder with trained confidence; her muscles were bulging as she looked down the iron sight of the rifle.

“Hey asshole,” her mother growled.

The stranger turned to meet her gaze. As he did, terror contorted his face and his confidence faltered.

Her mother pulled the action down, a mechanical crunch following the action as a round was chambered. “Get the fuck out of my house.”

Everything happened in an instant. John pulled Emma back toward the wall, away from danger. Rose was still clinging her hand, and her body was similarly jolted away. Luis ducked, bringing his fist down on the stranger’s revolver as he did. The barrel was jerked down toward the floor. Then, a loud explosion burst through the room. Emma only heard the first second of it; the crack was followed by an annoying whine in her ear – a persistent mosquito. A sudden flash of light followed the sound, drenching her vision in bright yellow. Black blood ejected from the stranger’s head, a bullet wound appearing between his eyes. A similar spurt of blood appeared behind his head, as did splinters of wood as the bullet burrowed into the door frame. His entire body was thrust backward, the back of his head cracking against the door frame, his eyes fluttering with confusion.

To her shock, the stranger pushed himself back to his feet. Though visibly dazed, he was still alive. Another burst of light filled the room, and another flood of black blood burst from his chest. The stranger was jolted back again. The cords in his neck were standing out as his mouth moved rapidly. Tears were spilling from his eyes.

The stranger stumbled to his feet and leapt out the door. He managed to close it behind him just as another jolt of light splashed the wooden walls of the bedroom. A hole appeared in the door, a trail of dust and wood splinters puffing out toward them as the bullet tore through its thin barrier. Still, all Emma could hear was a high-pitched whine.

Her mother’s mouth moved as she looked at Luis. He nodded and rushed over toward her, John, and Rose. Then, she ran toward the door and ripped it open, disappearing into the darkness, the rifle pushed against her shoulder, as she was swallowed by the darkness of the home.

Next Chapter: Mary