This is a strange story. A strange story in the career of strange stories. It began

a little town in Missouri, place called Troy, where people can live in what

feels like country and still spend their days working in our way in St. Louis.

Quiet here, lots available room. It was December 27th, 2011, country dark,

just a sliver of moon, serene. Little of highway H, there's a dead-end street

called Sumag Drive. And on that street, there's a house nestled right on the

corner. The only light, the soft glow of a street clamp near the front lawn. The

air was still, sated, post-Christmas. On this night, just after 9.30, an approaching

car broke the silence and turned into the driveway. A man stepped out. Forty-something,

dark hair, slight gut, orange t-shirt, blue jeans. He walked a short, shattered path to

his porch and opened the unlocked door of his home.

Lincoln County 911, what is the location of your emergency?

Hello? Yes, okay, who am I speaking with?

My name is Russell Furea.

Russell, what's going on there?

I just got home from a run-top at the MNR.

9-1-1 calls come in all flavors. Calm to crazy. But this one?

Russell Furea seemed to hyperventilate as he stood in his kitchen, struggled to form

words. He wailed and sobbed and waited for help to arrive, all alone except for the

operator on the phone. And his dead wife, Betsy, on the floor of the living room.

Russell, I have a couple officers that are out there right now. Can you do me a favor

and open your front door?

...