The next morning I woke to the sound of Dads truck rolling down the gravel. I'd managed to drift off in the early morning, worn out from crying.

There was a feeling of relief that he was fine and oblivious. I'd had many panicky thoughts about Peter breaking into the house and murdering him.

I crawled out of the back of the car, looking around just for safety. But everything was normal, untouched by the events of last night. I almost had to make sure it wasn't some big hallucination.

Stretching my back out, I made my way over to the house. The key was under a statue of a sleeping deer, but after I used it I took it inside with me.

I did another sweep of the house to check every door and window. They were all still locked, so I just closed all the blinds and sat in my kitchen.

I wanted to take a shower and go to sleep, but I was too scared to do both. So I sat at my kitchen table and ate cereal while watching TV on my laptop in an attempt to calm myself down.

I didn't think I would ever be comfortable here again. The image of him was engraved in my mind. I expected him to be around every corner.

There was a knock at the front door, right behind me. I didn't get up, if it was the mailman he could leave the package on the porch.

"Bowen?" A familiar voice called through the door, "Are you alright?"

I gritted my teeth, having to fight the urge to respond.

"I woke up and you were gone and the door was broken," he sounded anxious, "I don't know what happened."

Part of me clung to the helpless tone of his voice, but I fought it. He was a monster, I saw it. It looked me right in the eye. A chill ran through me just thinking about it.

"Please say you're alright. I'm scared." It was probably the most pitiful phrase I'd ever heard.

Against my better judgement I got up and walked over to the door. Squinting through the peephole I saw him, looking as normal as ever.

Eyes sad, but blue and clear. He wasn't smiling like he normally was, but there was no trace of the fierce snarl from last night.

I rubbed my eyes, trying to come up with an idea. The lack of sleep was wearing on my decision making abilities.

The only idea I could think of was obnoxious, and I hated it, but it was all I had. I went to my dad's room and took the handgun out of his nightstand.

I hated guns, but that didn't mean I didn't know how to shoot them.

Approaching the front door slowly I turned the lock and opened it.

Peters face lit up when he saw me, but the light faded quickly when he saw the gun pointed at him.

"What's wrong?" He asked, flinching away from me.

"Get back." I ordered. He stepped back from the screen door.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm aiming a gun at the thing that tried to kill me last night."

He looked dumbfounded, "What?"

"Last night, you growled like an animal."

"No I didn't," he insisted, "Why would I even do that?"

"Why would I make it up?" I pressed the nose of the gun to the screen until it was concave.

"I don't know," he grasped for words, "I'm so confused."

"You're confused, that's rich." I laughed humorlessly.

"I swear, I don't know what you're talking about but I'll do anything to make it up to you."

I thought for a second, letting the two halves of my brain fight it out. On one hand I had no idea who or what he was and he'd proven himself to have a dark side. But on the other, he seemed so sincere, and I was so painfully curious.

"I want to know everything," I said, "You have to tell me everything."