In the third bedroom now, and here was his prize. What had gone before was merely a precursor. This was the reason he had come.
            Naked, save for the plastic covers taped around his feet, and white cotton gloves pulled snug on large hands, the man paced the room like a caged animal. He felt good, so loose and alive, a busy night's work behind him, the best part yet to come. As he moved he kept his face turned towards the sleeping girl, his eyes as unblinking and glassy as those of a reptile. His tongue snaked out to moisten his lips.
            He stopped pacing and stood quite still for a few moments, allowing himself to focus. Sweat slid from his body as though his flesh were made of glass. After running a hand across his forehead, he smiled crookedly and moved among the shadows towards the girl's bed, feet hissing on thick carpet. She was quite beautiful, strawberry-blonde hair draped around her oval head like a silken halo, lips parted as if preparing for a kiss. Moonlight bleeding through her bedroom window cut a pale slash across her arm. He stared at her exposed flesh, and what he saw there took his breath away. For although the room was warm, her skin had erupted in a rash of goosebumps.
            She had felt the chill of his approach.
            The girl was dreaming, eyes flickering just as her mother's had less than thirty minutes earlier. The rapid eye movement fascinated him. REM. He thought of the rock group who went by that name, one of their songs striking a deliciously ironic chord...
            Everybody hurts. Everybody cries. Everybody hurts...sometimes.
            How gloriously appropriate.
            Softly he called her name. His smooth voice whispered like a gently flowing stream. Twelve-year-old Laura Rogers stirred in her sleep but did not awaken.
            "Laura?"
            The voice like a sigh came again. This time he gently shook her warm body. The touch was electric, his long thin fingers jerking reflexively, prompting an explosion of images in the darker regions of his mind. His hand maintained the contact longer than was necessary. Only the thickness of the thin cotton gloves separated them. It was still far too much.
            The girl began to emerge from her slumber. She blinked the fog of sleep away, drank him in with widening eyes, yet said nothing. Fear had eroded her capacity for speech.

The intruder's hand reached out toward her. "You have to come with me," he said. "Right now."
            Terrified, Laura Rogers shook her head. There was a cry of horror within her, but it was buried deep down and she could not find a way to it. Her mouth flapped open uselessly, and a white-gloved hand clamped over her parted lips. A gleaming, bone-handled knife appeared before her eyes as if from nowhere.
            The intruder lowered his head close to hers and his eyes became dead black pools.
            "Don't cry out," he warned. "When I remove my hand from your mouth, you must not scream. If you do, your family will suffer unimaginable pain. Do you understand me?"
            She gave a single nod. He withdrew his hand.
            "Good. Now then, pay attention. I want you to come with me, and you will. Whether you come walking by my side, or gagged and trussed over my shoulder, I really don't care. But you will come with me."
            "Who are you?" Laura managed to ask in a tiny voice that was scarcely more than a whisper.
            He smiled terribly. It was intended to be disarming, but was merely predatory. "Are you afraid of the dark, Laura?" As he asked the question he waggled the knife back and forth. His voice remained easy and light.
            She nodded, mute once more.
            His smile broadened. He touched the knife to the tender flesh of her cheek, sweeping the long steel blade along its smooth curve with delicate strokes. The movement was affectionate, perhaps even intimate. "That's good, Laura. That's very good. Because I am the dark, and you should fear me. Do you hear me? Do you understand? I am the dark, Laura."
            A low, whimpering sound filled Laura's ears. At first she thought that someone - or something - else had entered the room, before realising that the pitiful moans were escaping from her own lips. If this man truly was the dark then she would live in fear of it for the rest of her life.
            Suddenly her scattered thoughts reassembled themselves, a jigsaw completed in a flurry. "What about my...?"
            "Your family will be safe provided you come with me. Provided you don't cry out or give me any problems. If you don't do as I say, I'll kill them. I'll kill them all. I'll make you watch as I do it, and then I'll kill you, too. But believe me, Laura, I will take my time about it."
            Laura saw she had no choice. She found it hard to believe this was not a dream, some terrible nightmare from which she would soon awaken, sweating and scared, yet dripping with relief. A small voice inside her head told her to run, to fight, to scream loud enough to wake the dead. Another reminded her of his warning. With great reluctance and enormous resolve, Laura pushed back the sheets and twisted round. She wore only a thin sleeveless nightdress, and felt naked before his unswerving gaze. He smiled and nodded.
            "That's a good girl," he said. "I knew you'd understand me, Laura. I just knew you would. I can see we're going to get along just fine."
            "What do you want with me? Why are you doing this?"
            "All in good time, Laura. For now, you only have to focus on doing as you're told."
            She stood, swaying unsteadily for a moment, betrayed by her legs as she reached for her dressing gown, but the man yanked on her arm and pulled her away. He leaned forward, eyes fixed upon hers. "Did I say you could have your robe? Did I ask you to get it, did I give you permission to put it on?"
            Laura shook her head stiffly. "No, but I..."
            "But nothing. Do only as you are told. Now, come with me."
            By the hand he led her along the landing, down the stairs and into the kitchen. As they moved beyond the breakfast bar, Laura peered down at a strange dark shape on the quarry-tiled floor. It took her fully twenty seconds to recognise what remained of her cat. Her eyes flew open and she glared at the man through a welling of tears.
            "Why did you have to kill Simba?" Her voice was small, shocked by the brutality.
            The man grinned, shrugged and replied, "Why not?"
            As they left the house through the back door, he stopped to pull on a cotton tracksuit, before stepping into a pair of soft canvas shoes. The bags that had been on his feet disappeared inside a small holdall. He did not wash first, and it wasn't until they were outside in the sultry night air that Laura fully realised what had been smeared across the man's face and naked body.
            Blood. Dark and slick. Too much blood for one tiny cat.
            In that instant she knew the truth. But by then it was too late. "You told me you hadn't hurt them," Laura cried.
            He slapped a hand over her mouth once more. "I know," he said. "I lied."