It's now time for just the terror with Nick Guerra. the house sat empty at the top of the hill.

It security lights were a beacon in the night, like a lighthouse alone in the mist, warning chips

away from the kiss of sharp shores.

The closest neighbor was further away than a man could throw a rock, a fact that didn't appear

to be a coincidence. Inside its smooth walls, gray hardwoods spread out across an expansive single floor.

The leather furniture decorating the space looked like someone's idea of a futuristic catchers

mitt and felt half as cozy, chosen, as was the case for much of the house, for more color than comfort.

Doubly so, for the tank of tropical fish that shimmered against the far accent wall.

Its 40-odd gallons of water sparkled in the dark, cared for by a professional

who came out to the house on alternating Tuesdays. Overhead spotlights clicked to life. They were triggered

by the abrupt opening of the heavy front door.

A burst of cool air was followed into the house by Douglas, the owner.

He shot the door just as quickly as it had swung open.

His gray unblinking eyes flecked with bits of blue.

Three hard clacks and the door was locked. Four beeps and the alarm system was activated.

In the kitchen, Douglas stood at the refrigerator and poured himself a glass of water,

drinking it down in one gulp, then did the same with a scotch. He was thirsty and had been

for some time.

His nerves were on fire and needed extinguishing.

After another scotch, this one over ice, he drew the blinds and ran the shower until the

mirror couldn't be seen.

Then he had dressed and stepped in.

...