Confederate
Member
It was a new house and every room was filled with boxes. And it was their first night in it. It was 2:36 a.m. when Earl's wife awakened him and whispered urgently in his ear, "Someone's downstairs!" Earl stirred and rolled half way around in bed. He had spent the day moving into his spacious house and was dead to the world.
Who would break in then?
"You're hearing things," he replied. Helen was, if anything, vigilant, but sometimes she fretted over things she shouldn't. Pipes, the house settling. It was always something that could be explained away, but then he heard it. Something was distinctly moving downstairs. He was instantly awake. Whatever had made the noise was now stirring and moving through the boxes. And what was worse, they had not yet unpacked his Dan Wesson .357 Magnum--the same gun he'd used to kill a charging mountain lion months earlier. Now he felt defenseless. Damn, he thought. What kind of crook would break into a house in the middle of the night which still had unpacked boxes in every room?
He slipped out of bed and grabbed the baseball bat he had placed next to the bed. His wife was clutching him as he moved towards the door. "What are you going to do?" she said. The cell phone was downstairs charging and there was no way to call 911.
"You stay here," he said, and broke free from her grasp. He moved out into the hall and towards the stairs. He could barely see, but he stopped and listened. Nothing. Then, as he got to the top of the stairs, he again heard the sound of movement. Clutching the bat in his left hand, he moved quietly down the steps, his back against the wall. The sound stopped. So did Earl, but then he quietly proceeded down the steps until he reached the bottom. Boxes were everywhere, and he didn't even have a flashlight. He waited, then continued. Turning, he began to move towards his study. That's when he saw the man standing there in the door of the downstairs bathroom, about two feet from him in darkness. Lashing out, he instinctively struck a savage blow to the man's face....
...and hit the full-length mirror on the door. Screaming in pain, he pulled back his bloodied hand and dropped the bat, cursing every god known to mortal man. At the same time, he saw his panicked cat, streaking across the floor towards and up the stairs at full speed.
The rest of the night was spent with Helen removing shards of glass from Earl's battered hand. It was months before Earl could see the humor of the situation, though his wife had to explain the injury to friends. The following day Earl retrieved the box with his Dan Wesson in it and put it in the drawer of his nightstand.
He never did replace that damn mirror.
True story.
Who would break in then?
"You're hearing things," he replied. Helen was, if anything, vigilant, but sometimes she fretted over things she shouldn't. Pipes, the house settling. It was always something that could be explained away, but then he heard it. Something was distinctly moving downstairs. He was instantly awake. Whatever had made the noise was now stirring and moving through the boxes. And what was worse, they had not yet unpacked his Dan Wesson .357 Magnum--the same gun he'd used to kill a charging mountain lion months earlier. Now he felt defenseless. Damn, he thought. What kind of crook would break into a house in the middle of the night which still had unpacked boxes in every room?
He slipped out of bed and grabbed the baseball bat he had placed next to the bed. His wife was clutching him as he moved towards the door. "What are you going to do?" she said. The cell phone was downstairs charging and there was no way to call 911.
"You stay here," he said, and broke free from her grasp. He moved out into the hall and towards the stairs. He could barely see, but he stopped and listened. Nothing. Then, as he got to the top of the stairs, he again heard the sound of movement. Clutching the bat in his left hand, he moved quietly down the steps, his back against the wall. The sound stopped. So did Earl, but then he quietly proceeded down the steps until he reached the bottom. Boxes were everywhere, and he didn't even have a flashlight. He waited, then continued. Turning, he began to move towards his study. That's when he saw the man standing there in the door of the downstairs bathroom, about two feet from him in darkness. Lashing out, he instinctively struck a savage blow to the man's face....
...and hit the full-length mirror on the door. Screaming in pain, he pulled back his bloodied hand and dropped the bat, cursing every god known to mortal man. At the same time, he saw his panicked cat, streaking across the floor towards and up the stairs at full speed.
The rest of the night was spent with Helen removing shards of glass from Earl's battered hand. It was months before Earl could see the humor of the situation, though his wife had to explain the injury to friends. The following day Earl retrieved the box with his Dan Wesson in it and put it in the drawer of his nightstand.
He never did replace that damn mirror.
True story.
