It has been one year. One year since I came home to find my wife and children lying in pools of blood on our living room floor, dead. One year from this night that I tried desperately to save my family’s life even though I knew there was no life left in them to be saved. One year since I started hunting down the heartless man that killed my wife and kids. My name is James Walker, and I, for the first time in my life, am about to commit a murder.

A cool breeze weaved through the trees above me as I stood at the edge of a forest looking up to an old two story home perched high on a hill a few hundred feet away from me. I could tell that it was once a fine looking house, but now, with a lawn overgrown with weeds and paint peeling from its unchecked face, it was the most unsightly house for miles around.

Dim light peered through the windows illuminating the surrounding lawn. I watched from behind a thick layer of underbrush as a dark shadow from inside the house moved toward a window to survey their property.

When a nearby clock tower struck twelve, the shadow disappeared back into the light and I knew it was time to make my move.

I started toward the house, keeping a close vigil on the dim windows. I walked along the edge of the forest in an attempt to keep myself hidden. When the strip of forest ended I was forced to crawl through the thick weeds. I could feel the blade of my knife rubbing against my upper thigh, and the inflammation in my side grew in the spot where my gun met my hip. Before I knew it however, I was face to face with the oak front doors of the house.

I stood up and put my ear to the door, trying to get an idea of where the killer was. From what I could hear, he was up stairs.

Picking the lock was harder than when I was practicing. It took me three tries which was much longer than it should have taken. My nerves were kicking in.

I try keeping my hand steady as I move it toward the brass door knob. I pushed open the door and enter a small, muggy living room, lit by a single lamp. I know immediately that I am in the right house when I smell the scent of mold and air freshener. The same scent that lingered on my wife’s body when I found her.

I proceed into a dark hallway which leads to a flight of stairs. As I ascend to the second floor I hear movement, and I know I am headed in the right direction. However I can’t tell where the movement is coming from.

Along the hallway, all of the doors are locked. Almost like someone is expecting me.

When I reach the window at the end of the hallway, I realize that something is wrong. The only sound I hear is my own heartbeat, and I have the strangest feeling that I am being watched. It then becomes clear to me. I am no longer the hunter. I’m the hunted.

When I turn around to face the hallway, I have no time to react to the hooded man sprinting toward me. He crashes into me and I feel glass shatter on my back, and I am falling.

When I was a child I fell out of trees on many occasions. I would land on my back and the wind would flee from my lungs. The pain I felt then was nothing compared to the pain I felt now. It was as though my throat had sealed itself on impact and refused to reopen.
As I struggled for breath I could feel blood seeping from wounds in my back where the glass had pierced my skin. My head pounded when it smashed against the floor and I could feel the red blood ooze out of my head.

When I gained the energy to do so, I got on to all fours and looked up. I saw the hooded man walking toward me like a spider coming home to its web. He stopped in front of me with a knife clutched in his hand.

Without hesitation I pulled the knife from my belt and jabbed him in the side of the leg with it. As he collapsed, he swung his knife toward me cutting a
deep gash in my arm. The man’s screams echoed through the hills around us as I struck his thigh with my knife. He doubled over in pain and I saw my chance.

I tackled him to the ground and pinned him down. I needed to know something before I did anything else.

With the blade of my knife up to his neck, I asked, “Why them?”

The man looked into my face and recognized my children’s eyes in mine. He then smiled, “Because they were home.”

I smiled back, and thrust my knife through his heart.