[ WP ] You enter the dank , cold room and stand there in the light . On the table you see an envelope

The boy with the knife snuck in through the basement. The only low window was locked from the inside, but a medium-sized rock took care of that. Had it been another time, he might have thought twice about the noise and mess. But as it was, his mind was on other things. 
 
 Pausing only for a moment to knock what pieces were left of the glass out, he pulled himself through, wincing as the leftovers of his desperate job carved scratches down his torso. Most boys his age wouldn ’ t have fit through. 
 
 He found himself in a vast room, cold from the sinking, conditioned air, and mildewy about the old brick walls. To his right was a furnace and some washing and drying machines, but not what he was looking for. To his left was a rickety staircase, comprised of level boards and some wooden framing. Silently, he climbed it. 
 
 This is what he hated most - this part of himself; the part of which he could never speak; the part that he tried not to feel guilt for - that he sometimes tried to convinced himself was explainable. He wished no one would be home, because he knew that if it came to it, he would n't hold back his knife. And that was what sickened him most. But his mind was on other things. 
 
 At the top of the staircase was a steel door. He briefly panicked as he grasped the handle, but it opened inward with only a slight creak. 
 
 He moved fast, making his way purposefully through the house, intuitively assuming the most likely layout. He found the kitchen within a minute, and with a look over his shoulder, opened the refrigerator. 
 
 A necklace, tripled round as a bracelet, slipped off his minuscule hand onto the linoleum floor. If you were there, that night, at first glance it would have seemed worthless - a simple cord attached to two sticks wrapped together in the shape of a cross by a bent paper clip. But then you would have seen the clammy, depraved hands that snatched at it. And you would have heard the rasping gasps of horror that the boy made as he dived across the floor after it. 
 
 In the light from the refrigerator, he stared at the necklace longer than he knew he ought to have, remembering an afternoon long since past - a time before the end of joy. 
 
 His mother had been a kind soul. He vaguely remembered the rules he ’ d had to memorize on the day that she gave it to him. 
 
 * ” We do not? ” * 
 
 * “ Lie? ” * 
 
 * ” Yes, that ’ s right! And we do not? ” * 
 
 * ” Steal? ” * 
 
 * ” Yes! That ’ s* good*, Thomas! ” * 
 
 Angry tears began to form. The boy felt a shame run across his face, and a sorrow down his heart, remembering some of the things he ’ d done. 
 
 * ” We do not? ” * 
 
 * ” Kill! ” * 
 
 * ” Very good, Thomas! ” * 
 
 The boy closed his eyes. Remembering some of the things he ’ d done. 
 
 * “ We do not? ” * 
 
 … 
 
 The boy couldn ’ t remember the rest. 
 
 He looked at the contents of the fridge and felt gnawing want that tore not only through his belly, but through his every limb and bone and piece and part. He looked down at his necklace and felt a deeper want that gnawed on his very self. 
 
 Silently, slowly, he closed the door, and made his way to the basement stairs. 
 
 He held the cross gently in his hand still. Then pressed it firmly to his chest, hoping for it or anything to fill the dreadful weakness that threatened to overcome him even then. 
 
 If you were there, that night, at first glance you wouldn ’ t have given another to the house in the middle on Webster Road. But then you would have seen the shadow, thin as a wisp, that slipped from the basement window and around the back, unnoticed, unneeded, unhelped. 
 
 **To Be Continued. I just ca n't do it tonight. **
