I screamed.

He lunged forward, but I kicked out instinctively, catching his knee. He stumbled, just long enough for me to yank Emily free and run.

We tore through the kitchen and burst into the backyard, cold air burning my lungs.

“Run to Mrs. Thompson’s!” I shouted.

Emily hesitated. “What about you?”

“Go!” I yelled.

She ran.

The man grabbed my ankle as I tripped, dragging me back toward the house. Panic surged as I screamed for help.

Then headlights flooded the yard.

Daniel’s car screeched to a stop. He jumped out and tackled the man to the ground as neighbors poured outside, phones raised, someone already calling the police.

The truth came out quickly. The man had been watching Daniel for weeks, memorizing his voice from videos, tracking his travel schedule, stealing a spare key from our gym locker. His plan was simple—get inside, steal what he could, disappear.

He hadn’t counted on a child noticing one small detail.

Emily had listened to the footsteps.

That night, we didn’t sleep. Locks were changed. Cameras installed. But more than that, something shifted. We understood how close we’d come to disaster—not because of anything supernatural, but because trust can be copied.

Later, I asked Emily quietly, “How did you know it wasn’t Dad?”

She thought for a moment.
“He always taps his keys before opening the door,” she said. “That man didn’t.”Continue reading…