He found Sid crumpled in a blood-drenched heap at the fence. He found Belle inside at the base of the stairs, a pool of blood spreading under her body. In dread, he stared up at the second floor.

            Slowly, he trudged up the steps and into the room, eyes adjusting to the darkness. He turned for the closet, hesitating at the door. Trembling, he entered and pulled the chain for the overhead bulb. Blood spattered the walls and hanging clothes. At the back of the closet, they were sprawled in a heap, drenched in blood. His little girl, eyes staring up at the ceiling, had a huge gash in her chest. She was in the arms of his wife, whose head lolled to the side, a trickle of blood running from the corner of her mouth, her eyes as lifeless as his daughter’s. He realized what had happened: the killer had plunged a knife all the way through his daughter and into his wife.

            He glanced over to his right at a lump on the floor. Pulling up the coat on top of the lump, he revealed a body underneath, that of his son, a huge-bladed knife embedded in the boy’s chest.

    Shaking, he threw back his head. A wail filled the tiny closet, reverberating, gale-force, the shriek of a banshee, and in some distant part of his mind, he realized the wail was his.