But from the rest of the house all he heard was silence. He listened harder.
Or were there some sounds? Could he hear some music? Voices? Laughter? Maybe the band had arrived and Lloyd was having a ball with them. Or maybe the music and laughter were all inside Sam's head. He couldn't work it out. He suddenly felt exhausted. Too tired to think. He should try and get some sleep. Things always looked better in the morning, at least that's what his mum always promised, and most of the time it was true. But not always.
He clambered back down off the chest of drawers and picked up the bedside table to put it back where it came from. Click, click, click, click. Sam knew instantly what it was and he almost jumped out of his skin. A key was turning in the lock. He dropped the table, but it didn't make any noise on the carpet and it had saved Sam from screaming the house down like that girl had done in that scary film they had watched in the car. The door didn't open, but the key was turned in the lock again, and again. Click, click, click, click. Someone was trying to get in and thought the key wasn't working properly. It wouldn't take them long to work out that the key was fine, and that it was the door that wasn't opening.
Ha! Take that, you creep! Sam thought, but his elation was short lived.
It hadn't taken the man long to realise what was going on. Sam heard a yell, and this time it wasn't an imaginary sound, it was horribly real, and it meant one thing: the man was angry, very angry. Sam inched back towards the bathroom door. A violent shove jarred against the chest of drawers, but it didn't budge, not an inch. Another loud slam. The man must have put his shoulder to the door that time and the chest of drawers shuddered in response. It didn't look as though it had moved, but Sam couldn't be sure. He took another step back as another slam battered the chest of drawers. This time he saw it move, but not much, just a tiny fraction. Sam cringed, waiting for the next slam. Nothing happened. There was that silence again.
Back-up plan, Sam hissed at himself. You need a backup plan in case he gets in. The problem was Sam couldn't think of anything. His brain had gone on strike or something because he kept trying to think, and all he could see was the chest of drawers lying on its side and the bedroom door wide open. Focus, Sam. Focus. But Sam couldn't focus. His dad's voice began to fade and Sam couldn't work out why. Help, Dad. Please help me. Please come. I need you. Please, Dad, come now. Please – the words tumbled helter-skelter through his mind as the tears toppled down his face. Sam knew his dad couldn't help him.
Slam. Slam. The man was back. He wasn't going to stop until he was inside the room and this time it didn't sound as though he was using his shoulder. He was using something big and heavy to pulverize the door. It was some kind of sledge hammer or battering ram, or maybe even an axe. Sam began to sob. He backed up, right up to the bathroom doorway, and listened to the steady beat of the slam, slam. What would he do when the man came in? Slam, slam. What would he do when the man came in? Slam, slam. What would he do when the man came in?
Part of Sam's brain must have been working because it came up with an answer. He would overpower him and kill him if he came anywhere near him. Oh really, Sam. How are you going to do that?
A weapon, that's what he needed. Now he was in a frenzy. The man could break through at any minute and Sam had no weapon. He searched round wildly for something to use, anything. He rummaged through the chest of drawers, but all the drawers were empty. The wardrobe had a couple of moth-eaten coats hanging in it and nothing else. The bedside table was the only thing left, and that wasn't a very practical weapon to wield. The only thing he could do with it was chuck it at the man and then try and run past him. He would have to aim for his head, try and knock him out or something. No, that
Or were there some sounds? Could he hear some music? Voices? Laughter? Maybe the band had arrived and Lloyd was having a ball with them. Or maybe the music and laughter were all inside Sam's head. He couldn't work it out. He suddenly felt exhausted. Too tired to think. He should try and get some sleep. Things always looked better in the morning, at least that's what his mum always promised, and most of the time it was true. But not always.
He clambered back down off the chest of drawers and picked up the bedside table to put it back where it came from. Click, click, click, click. Sam knew instantly what it was and he almost jumped out of his skin. A key was turning in the lock. He dropped the table, but it didn't make any noise on the carpet and it had saved Sam from screaming the house down like that girl had done in that scary film they had watched in the car. The door didn't open, but the key was turned in the lock again, and again. Click, click, click, click. Someone was trying to get in and thought the key wasn't working properly. It wouldn't take them long to work out that the key was fine, and that it was the door that wasn't opening.
Ha! Take that, you creep! Sam thought, but his elation was short lived.
It hadn't taken the man long to realise what was going on. Sam heard a yell, and this time it wasn't an imaginary sound, it was horribly real, and it meant one thing: the man was angry, very angry. Sam inched back towards the bathroom door. A violent shove jarred against the chest of drawers, but it didn't budge, not an inch. Another loud slam. The man must have put his shoulder to the door that time and the chest of drawers shuddered in response. It didn't look as though it had moved, but Sam couldn't be sure. He took another step back as another slam battered the chest of drawers. This time he saw it move, but not much, just a tiny fraction. Sam cringed, waiting for the next slam. Nothing happened. There was that silence again.
Back-up plan, Sam hissed at himself. You need a backup plan in case he gets in. The problem was Sam couldn't think of anything. His brain had gone on strike or something because he kept trying to think, and all he could see was the chest of drawers lying on its side and the bedroom door wide open. Focus, Sam. Focus. But Sam couldn't focus. His dad's voice began to fade and Sam couldn't work out why. Help, Dad. Please help me. Please come. I need you. Please, Dad, come now. Please – the words tumbled helter-skelter through his mind as the tears toppled down his face. Sam knew his dad couldn't help him.
Slam. Slam. The man was back. He wasn't going to stop until he was inside the room and this time it didn't sound as though he was using his shoulder. He was using something big and heavy to pulverize the door. It was some kind of sledge hammer or battering ram, or maybe even an axe. Sam began to sob. He backed up, right up to the bathroom doorway, and listened to the steady beat of the slam, slam. What would he do when the man came in? Slam, slam. What would he do when the man came in? Slam, slam. What would he do when the man came in?
Part of Sam's brain must have been working because it came up with an answer. He would overpower him and kill him if he came anywhere near him. Oh really, Sam. How are you going to do that?
A weapon, that's what he needed. Now he was in a frenzy. The man could break through at any minute and Sam had no weapon. He searched round wildly for something to use, anything. He rummaged through the chest of drawers, but all the drawers were empty. The wardrobe had a couple of moth-eaten coats hanging in it and nothing else. The bedside table was the only thing left, and that wasn't a very practical weapon to wield. The only thing he could do with it was chuck it at the man and then try and run past him. He would have to aim for his head, try and knock him out or something. No, that
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