• Emile Winesburk listened with intensified terror to the monotone of voices drifting down the pristine white staircase. He stopped where he was, motionless. The sound of chanting continued to grow even more and more deafening. On habit, he reached into his trouser pocket and pulled out to small pocket knife Uncle Tom had given him for his eleventh birthday, four years ago. The dinky little blade was little more than a safety precaution. It would never do in a real fight.
    As the crooning of voices raised to nearly a shout he took a deep steadying breath, and then charged up the winding staircase. He tried to protrude a battle shout, but instead it came out as sort of a strangled whine. He had to admit he must’ve seemed quit absurd.
    Then at the top step the whole house began to shake, as if a tremor had rocked the earth, knocking Emile off his feet slamming him gut first into the stair post. Emile let out an audible groan, as the room seemed to sway around him. Bits and pieces of ceiling were falling everywhere, and dust began to cloud his vision. He inhaled from his impact, breathing in chips of paint, coughing and sputtering as he did so.
    Then several screams emanated from a room down the hall, each starting in synchronized timing, followed by a gut-wrenching sound the Emile simply good not place. If he thought he was feeling sick before, he was surely mistaken. Emile could feel his throat run dry, and then suddenly everything froze.
    The silence in the house pierced his ears, as he listened for something. Anything. A breath. A footstep. Any sign that he wasn’t the only living thing now in this house. The silence passed in a moment, but what felt like hours to Emile.
    A door slammed. A faucet ran. A glass broke. Wood snapped. And suddenly the whole house seemed to issue a low animal-like growl. He could feel the blood as it drained from his face.
    Then the nothingness reigned once again. A frigid veil of air made its way over him, until he was nearly shuddering. He began to pick himself up…
    Then suddenly he was pinned to the ground by nothing at all, face-up. He couldn’t remember when he had been flipped right-side up; he hadn’t made a motion for it. He struggled where he lay; tugging at whatever invisible bonds had him trapped on the floor. His heart thudded against his chest, as he tossed his head back and forth, looking for his unseen captor.
    Then a shadow obscured his eyesight. An unpierced night that went, and lasted forever. Everything, anything, but still only nothing. He could not fear it; on the contrary he felt completely unconcerned. He couldn’t remember anything of alarming events that had only taken up a fraction a minute- just enough time for this virulent ending.
    He couldn’t remember anything. But the echoes of the bloodcurdling shrieks of agony somewhere in the back of his head…
    Fading…
    And now a face. Barely discernable, without any facial features of recognition…
    Except for a pair of eyes… white, glowing, yet set… on something…
    Annihilation.