Margaret sank deeper into her recliner, the leather sighing beneath her as The Twilight Zone flickered across the TV screen. Shadows jittered across the walls in time with the grainy black-and-white glow.


The house was quiet—too quiet—but she told herself she liked it that way.


Then something moved at the edge of her vision.


A shadow...


Quick...


Man-shaped...


Gone before she could focus.


She turned her head sharply. Nothing. Only the flicker of the TV and the low hum of her refrigerator in the next room.


Her pulse ticked faster. “Lord,” she muttered, half-laughing. “Maybe I just need to go to bed.”


But then came the noise—a soft shuffle from the kitchen. Not the scurry of rats. Heavier.


Her breath caught.

She sat up straighter. “Hello?”


No answer.


She grabbed her phone, her hand trembling slightly as the blue light lit her face. After four rings, a sleepy voice broke through.


“Grandma? You okay?”


“Laura, baby, I’m sorry to wake you,” Margaret whispered. “I keep hearing noises. Thought I saw something move.”


“It’s probably rats again,” Laura mumbled. “I’ll come in the morning, okay?”


Before Margaret could reply, a loud thud came from upstairs.


Her eyes widened.

“Did you hear that?”


Laura sighed. “No, ma’am. I’ll come first thing. Love you.”


Margaret wanted to plead, but her throat was too tight. “Love you too.”


The call ended.


Silence pressed in again.


For a long moment, she didn’t move. Then, forcing herself to breathe, she climbed the stairs. The hall smelled faintly of damp earth. The air felt colder.


She flicked on the bathroom light.


Muddy footprints trailed from the open window to the shower curtain.


Her heart slammed against her ribs.


Before she could turn, a hand clamped over her mouth and a gloved fist struck her cheek. She stumbled, hitting the floor hard.

“Hold her,” a voice hissed.


Another figure stepped from the shower, a black mask over his face. “She’s just an old lady,” he muttered. “Grab the stuff and go.”


Margaret twisted beneath the first man’s grip, gasping, fighting with everything she had. “Get off me!”


She drove her knee upward, catching him in the groin. He grunted, loosening his hold. She lunged for her nightstand, grabbed the can of mace, and sprayed.


The air filled with a sharp chemical sting.


The man screamed, stumbling back.

The second man burst from the hall—Margaret’s gun in his hand from her closet.


“Stop!” he shouted. “Don’t make me do this—I don’t want to shoot you!”


Margaret froze, chest heaving. Tears blurred her vision. “Please,” she said. “Take whatever you want.”


He hesitated, jaw tight. “Get in the bed. Don’t move until we’re gone.”


She obeyed, sliding under the covers as the men gathered their bags and clattered down the stairs.


But fury simmered beneath her fear.


She refused to be robbed.


Quietly, she opened her dresser drawer and pulled out her second gun. Her palms were slick with sweat.


She crept to the stairs, aimed down. “Not tonight,” she whispered—and fired.


The gunshot cracked through the house. One man crumpled, screaming.

The other—his best friend—spun, eyes wild. “No!” he shouted. He lifted her gun, voice shaking. “I told you I didn’t want to do this!”


Two flashes...


Two deafening bangs...


Margaret tumbled down the stairs, her body limp, her neck twisted at an unnatural angle.


The man stood frozen, chest heaving. Then he dropped the empty gun, grabbed both duffel bags, and staggered out into the night, leaving the door wide open behind him.


Morning light spilled across the porch when Laura arrived.


The front door was ajar, swaying slightly. Dread tightened her chest.


She called her grandmother’s name again and again as the police arrived. When she stepped inside behind them, her legs buckled.


Margaret lay at the bottom of the stairs, eyes open.


“Grandma, no!” Laura screamed, dropping to her knees. “I should’ve come last night…”


An EMT rushed in—a young man with shaking hands.


Monty.


Laura turned to him, her face streaked with tears. “They said Grandma’s dead. She was robbed last night.”


Monty’s throat worked. He knelt beside her, arms around her trembling shoulders.


He wanted to tell her everything—that he hadn’t meant for it to happen, that he only wanted money, that he begged her not to make him pull the trigger—

that she’d shot his best friend first.


But he said nothing.


He only held her tighter as the sirens wailed outside and morning sunlight crept through the open door.