Lane Mayhew knew something was wrong the moment he turned onto the driveway. Quietly killing the engine, he stared up at the house. The front door was wide open and the interior was dark. Proceeding with caution, Lane silently pulled the car door open and hurried up the porch steps, his sneakers slipping on the rain-washed cement. Lane knew his breathing was quicker than normal, his heart pounding a scar in his chest. He closed his eyes, trying to calm himself, but it wasn’t working. He knew his parents had always been targets of foul play because of the nature of their work, but something about this wasn’t right; there was something surreal about this scene, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. Finally mustering up his courage, Lane slipped into the house. An icy blast of air hit him, like the shadow of a ghost gliding over him. Lane ran his hands over his eyes, fighting back fear, then hurried forward, up the stairs, and around the corner. The door to his parent’s bedroom was open. With a shiver, Lane pushed the door open and screamed.