I turned in bed and glanced at the clock,

groaning softly to see it was nearly one in the morning.

My wife, Alina, slept fitfully next to me.

But I couldn't stop thinking about the strange things that had been happening since we adopted

a nine-year-old boy named Jude.

Turning onto my back and sighing, I wished for sleep to come.

A shout came out from him in the hall, followed quickly by a series of thumps.

I sat up in bed and Alina propped herself up.

What was that? She asked.

I think it was your mom. I said, implications donning on me.

Her mother had just arrived bed afternoon to stay with us for over a week.

We threw the covers off and rushed out of the room.

I flipped on the hallway light at the top of the stairs, and we looked down to see Genie

lying at the bottom of the staircase. She cried out in pain, and I could tell that at least one of

her arms was broken. Jesus Christ! Mom!

Alina cried running down the stairs. I went and got my phone calling 911.

While I was still on with the operator, I moved down to try and comfort Genie while the ambulance

came. Gasping in pain, she gestured for us to get closer. When she did, she whispered,

he pushed me. I was going to get a drink of water, and I felt him pushed me.

All three of us looked up at the staircase to see Jude standing there, peering down with wide eyes.

Jude looked around the living room, green eyes big and reflecting the sunlight from the windows.

He clutched the Batman action figure in one hand. I'd never seen him without it during the

...