I was making tea in the kitchen at the back of the house when I heard a boom followed by the tinkling sound of broken glass. A car accident on the street, that's what I thought. I jogged forward a few steps into the dining room, stopping short under my thrift-store chandelier.
A gloved hand was coming through a pane of glass on my front door. The glove was knit with a thick, shiny white yarn and covered with brown leather patches on the fingers and palm. The hand was attached to an arm, nicely muscled and covered in a gray thermal T-shirt. The door was opening before the hand turned the lock. It had shattered in the frame to the left of the handle. ...
Read the rest at: http://superstitionreview.asu.edu/issue11/nonfiction/caralyndavis
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