Part 1: The Storm on the Porch
The storm rolled in off the coast around midnight, rattling the windows of my small, unassuming bungalow. I didn’t mind the noise. It reminded me of nights spent in jungles far away from this quiet Virginia suburb—nights where the rain was the only thing masking the sound of my breathing.
My name is John. To the neighborhood, I’m the retired guy at number 42. I mow my lawn on Tuesdays. I grow prize-winning roses. I fix the neighborhood kids’ bicycles when the chains pop off. I wave. I smile. I am harmless.
Or so they think.
I was in the kitchen making tea when I heard it. It wasn’t the thunder. It was a sound too soft, too human to be the weather. A whimper.
I set the kettle down, my movements instantly shifting from casual to precise. I moved to the
