Absently, she snacked on her cookie before gathering her belongings together to head for home. It was just about the right time for her to come home from school. It wouldn't do for her to arrive too early or too late. Her mother had probably already received a text message telling her Rania hadn't shown up for classes, but she could easily lie her way out of that by claiming they missed her in assembly. If that didn't work, well there were other ways...

Her home was eerily silent when she entered. Usually her mother was at her work desk in the den tapping away at her computer keyboard while talking on the telephone with a client. Monique Jackson worked from home as a health insurance agent for a well known firm. Strange, Rania thought, as she made her way to the kitchen to see what was for dinner. As she passed the stairway, a strange feeling overcame her. Casting her mind around, she felt her mother's presence in the upstairs bedroom, her mind in distress. Diverting her path from the kitchen to the stairs, Rania climbed to the upper floor feeling her mother's agony strengthen.

Her heart pounding strongly in her chest, she passed her own bedroom door with hurrying footsteps. Pushing her eye to the slightly ajar door of her parents room all she could see was the hovering back of a strange man kneeling on the bed. Sweeping the door opened a little further, she nearly gasped at the sight of her mother beneath the hulking figure. "Mama," she whispered in a barely audible voice.

"GET OFF MY MAMA!" her mind screamed at the maniac on the bed. Twice she repeated it, mentally sending the thought across the room. As she began to send it again, the man-form rose mechanically and stood to attention above her mother. "TURN AROUND."

Slowly the body turned toward her exposing the features of the man. Ollie Cummings faced her. Always a little on the strange side, Ollie lived in his mother's basement three doors down. Huge of body but small of mind, he was the odd child in the neighborhood. Even at age nineteen, his mental capacity was that of a six-year-old. Often in the afternoons, he could be found hovering behind the hedges in front of his home at the time the school bus let children off on the corner. It was the little girls who he liked the chase and grab if he could get a hold of them. Ever watchful from the picture window of her home, his mother, Emma Jean Cummings, would fling open the door to call him back from his unwelcome activities.