The first one home, or so he thought.
As he dropped his bag, an idea. Why not grab a broom and clean up a little? Anything to get out of the doghouse.
He worked his way around the living room but froze when he hit the hallway.
Two sets of footprints on the dusty hardwood floor. One small, human. The other freakishly large, otherworldly.
Both led to his daughter’s bedroom.
He put his ear to the door, his pulse racing.
“Daddy,” came the whisper.
He reached for the knob, twisted.
He didn’t want to go in. Now he had to.
The Weekday One Hundred 