1. Billy

Billy had just beaten his arch-nemesis to a pulp when a distinct crashing woke him. Disappointed that it was a dreamt victory, he vowed to make it reality when it was light out. Resigned and content, Billy shrugged the noise as something done by the family dog — he was a clumsy oaf after all, moreso than Billy himself. Pulling the sheets up to his chin, Billy closed his eyes.

Creak, went the door, the window, the tree branch outside, anything that wasn't Billy's problem. It was rather windy out too for there was a scratch here or there, the drip drop of wayward pebbles and dirt or the bathroom faucet (which his father promised to fix eventually) and there was, of course, the muffled barking of Isha, the dog.

It was a fine day, a calm day, but as night fell, the winds grew vicious. They said a storm was coming and St. Lenali, being very near the coast, was always the first to know. Billy knew Isha was downstairs in the partition in the kitchen so there was nothing to worry about except the incessant barking. He shrugged it off. He didn't want to go downstairs, his parents can deal with it, or his uncle for that matter.

But no such thing happened — Billy opened his eyes — everyone in the house was sound asleep. The lazy bums... Billy was about to quiet the dog himself when — another crash. Footsteps, light — a rhythmic patter of shoes on wooden stairs. It stopped. They were in the hallway, standing, reveling in the sudden quiet.

Burglars? Billy thought. Then another thought came like lightning — Isha? The dog's barking had stopped. The boy covered himself with his sheets, clutching his sides as he shut his eyes tight against whatever was going on.

He told himself it was a nightmare, only a nightmare. And like his earlier dream where he came out victorious, he too would survive this predicament. His courage fell.

His door made an odd click, the knob slowly turned round till the door was pushed — coloring the silence with a whisper of air.

Billy was afraid now. The footsteps grew closer and closer till they stopped right at the foot of his bed.

Billy gulped. If it was true, if there was some thing standing at the foot of his bed, watching him cower and shake... It was inevitable —

He was going to die.

It wasn't fair. He was only twelve! He still had a lot to live for, more arch-enemies to beat up and many a lazy day relaxing under the sun, the beach. His whole life was ahead of him and he couldn't let a phantom decide his fate.

Clutching the flashlight under his pillow — a souvenir from the first kid he beat — he crossed himself before he threw the sheets from his body. In that split second he decided to make a run for his parent's room. Jumping out of bed with unfortunately weak legs, he gripped at his dresser for support, swiftly putting his back to the wall. Panting heavily, he shined the flashlight upon the room.

He relaxed. Empty. Still, he wanted to make a run for it. But the open door put a damper on his hopes. Were they still here? Were they ever even here? It was nighttime, early in the morning, four by the looks of the clock he had on the wall...

A series of crashes could be heard downstairs — probably the rows of porcelain figures in the glass case in the hallway. He never liked them as much as his mother and every time he touched them she would absolutely explode. He had his fingers crossed on his mother saving the day — she was an intimidating woman after all and had the senses of a hawk.

Nothing.

The crashing and banging about resumed. And somewhere among it all, was the shout of a man that sounded too much like his uncle when he lost a game of cards — angry and desperate. He wasn't shouting for long and the eerie quiet returned.

It occurred to Billy then that he could hide, yes, under the bed or in the closet. But his legs refused to move. He slid to the floor, the flashlight rolling from his hands. He buried his face in his arms as he held his knees.

“This is a dream. This is a dream...” He repeated this in a breathless trance-like fashion. It wasn't working. The footsteps started up again, speedy steps that he sure that they stood a few paces in front of him, and his heart, oh his heart, was about ready to burst.

Seconds later, wiry hands gripped a tuft of Billy's hair, making him rise to his knees. An acrid smell stung his nose and the warm flesh of his neck was met by the flat of a damp cold blade. He froze, eyes glued shut.

A lump was in his throat and he croaked out in pain. His head stung, feeling suddenly like a pincushion overflowing with needles.

“Open your eyes.”

Billy couldn't focus with his searing headache. They pulled with more force. Billy screamed. He was thrown to the floor, clutching his aching head.

“Open your eyes,” they said again, not at all impatient.

When Billy refused, the blade met his arm. Shallow consecutive slices made him loosen his grip. The pain melded together till it was a large burning, stinging sensation that worsened with every slash. He braced himself, holding his middle with the ravaged arm. It burned. There were only a few seconds of reprieve before they resumed the assault; bashing his head repeatedly with the hilt of their weapon.

Silence.

“Open them,” it said again, eerily calm. It sounded like a woman.

Scared and bloody, Billy opened his eyes —