Free Freeze by Daniel Pyle

hand smacking the window, trying to scare her, playing with her before sending a shower of glass into her face. It had been a hand—that seemed obvious now—the hand of some lunatic who’d been sneaking around their property in the middle of a blizzard since at least last night. And now he was in the house, doing who knew what in the bedroom, maybe waiting for her to make the next move.
    “Whoever’s back there,” she said, proud of herself for sounding somewhat threatening, “I have a gun.”
    And I know how to use it.
    It sounded like a stupid movie line, but she said it anyway, “And I know how to use it.” She doubted the fictitious gun would send the intruder running even if he believed she had it, but it might at least scare him a bit, give her some sort of momentary advantage.
    Still no response from the bedroom. Bub looked at her again, turned back to the hallway, growled, barked. Tess hefted the poker and moved beside him.
    Wait. If there is someone back there to fight, you’re going to need to see to do it.
    Yes, true, but Warren had taken the flashlight, and she wasn’t going to be able to hold on to a candle during any kind of altercation.
    She hadn’t heard any more footsteps, although she could hear gusts of whistling wind and the hissing crackle of falling snow and ice outside, a sound that, for just a second, sounded almost identical to the crackling fire.
    It’s got to be a candle. What other choice do you have? Even if you end up dropping it, some light at first is better than none at all.
    The candles were on the other side of the living room, on an end table beside the sofa. She got one, but she didn’t have anything to put it in, so she looked for something to wrap around the bottom. There was a pile of magazines on the arm of the sofa; she picked one up, ripped out a page, and wadded it up around the base of the candle. It was a makeshift holder if ever there had been one, but it would keep most of the wax from dripping on her hand. She lit the candle. The flickering flame rose, died down, settled, and Tess padded back to Bub.
    “Follow me,” she whispered and stepped past him.
    He didn’t follow but limped at her side instead, brushing against her leg. They entered the hallway and crept toward the bedroom. Tess had eased the door most of the way shut after she took the mattress to the living room, hoping to contain the heat in the part of the house they were using. Now she wished she’d left it open. An intruder in the room at the end of the hall was scary enough, but an intruder in a room behind a closed door was scarier. Almost unbearably frightening. Her heart fluttered. Her hands shook. Not that it was easy to tell. This far away from the fire, most of her was shaking.
    She stopped at the threshold and held up the poker to her chest. Bub stopped beside her, stiff looking, growling, his teeth bared. Wax dripped down the candle and onto the crumpled wad of magazine paper. A few drips rolled from there to Tess’s wrist, but she hardly noticed.
    She imagined the intruder in there sifting through her underwear drawer, looking for valuables, a hairy, wild-eyed, homeless-looking man with snow in his beard. Or maybe not looking for valuables, maybe just looking for the undies, wanting to sniff them. Then she imagined the psycho standing just inside the door, imagined running in and stabbing the poker into his gut, imagined him looking up at her with confused, accusatory eyes.
    Quit it. You’re going to drive yourself crazy.  
    She looked down at Bub once more, took a long, shaky breath, and slid her foot toward the door. Her next movement was actually a series of movements all carried out almost simultaneously: she kicked open the door, angled the poker in front of herself like a lance, and rushed into the room, trying to keep low in case the loonie had a gun and started firing. Bub stayed right at her side, hurrying despite his limp. She watched him from the corner of her eye, careful