STR2D3PO: I was going to have her say "Here's Ronnie!" but I felt like that might be just a little too over the top. This isn't the most serious story ever, but, I think that would have been really silly.

HangingSoul: Sure, I just need to find the time. I'll get to it soon, though.

Guest: You're not wrong about the series of events not making a whole lot of sense. Rather than describe her getting in, I wanted to leave an air of mystery. For what its worth, here's what I think happened: After finding the back door locked, she went around front, climbed onto the porch roof, then got in through a gable vent. She came out of the attic, went into Lola's room, and took up position in the closet while she was downstairs. Next she slipped into Lucy's room, killed her, then dressed up as her and went downstairs to kill whoever was there. Rudd was asleep, so she went into the kitchen to see if anyone else was around, then heard him waking up.

Everyone: All of the OCs in this were named after rock musicians. Robert Palmer (the Addicted to Love guy); Stuart Cook (drummer for Creedence Clearwater Revival); Bon Scott and Brian Johnson (the former and current lead singer of AC/DC respectively); and Phil Rudd (the drummer of AC/DC). Rudd's first name was Phil but before posting the story, I changed it because he looked more like a Frank to me.

Lincoln started awake in his bed, a sound that he couldn't place echoing in the chambers of his sleep fogged mind. Darkness held sway and for a terrible second he could feel Ronnie Anne's presence. She stood in the shadows, glaring with red, burning eyes and clenched fists, trapped in-between life and death like a fly between window panes, unable to hurt him but always watching, and if the veil separating this world from the next were to even weaken, she would tear through and…

He swallowed thickly and closed that thought out before it could go any further. His brain was waking up and his thoughts were beginning to clear. Ronnie Anne was dead and no matter how much she may or may not hate him from the other side - if there even was an 'other side' - she couldn't come back.

Something rustled to his left, and his heart blasted against his chest. Telling himself it was nothing, he forced himself to calmly reach for the lamp instead of shooting out his hand in a superstitious panic. Light flooded the room, and the little girl standing at his bedside winced tiredly. Her pale blonde hair was matted with sleep and a big red pillow mark covered the right side of her delicate face. She wore fuzzy pink pajamas and clutched the end of a blanket in one hand, the rest pooled on the floor beside her.

Lincoln's pounding heart calmed. "Lydia? What's wrong?" he asked.

"I hate a nightmare," she said grudgingly, her brown eyes darting shamefully to her feet. "Can I sleep with you and Mom?"

Eight-years-old and bright, Lydia was the kind of girl who did not like being thought of as a child. She read adult novels (after Lincoln scanned them to make sure they weren't too adult), watched the evening news with him, and had always wound up the "mother" of every friend group she ever had, mediating arguments and making sure everyone was wearing their coat. Even so, sometimes when the lighting was just a little too bright, the thunder a decibel too loud, or the nightmares a smidge too scary, she swallowed her pride and came to hunker with him and Leni. Lincoln secretly loved those nights because for just a couple hours, she was his little girl again and not the beautiful, intelligent young lady she was quickly becoming. Right now, she was on the cusp, straddling two worlds. In another year or so, this wouldn't happen anymore, and he intended to enjoy it while he could.

"Of course," he smiled and glanced at the other side of the bed. Leni was curled up on the edge, humped under the blankets. Beside her, Ilena, their six-year-old, lay on her back, snoring. Next to her, on his stomach, was Nickolaus, five. At the foot, the twins, Chloe and York, two and as identical as a boy and girl can be, snuggled together facing each other, the back of York's hand resting on his sister's face and a long, silvery ribbon of drool coursing down the side of Chloe's mouth.

He frowned.

No room.

He looked at Lydia and cocked his head in thought. "How about I sleep in your bed with you?"

She considered for a moment, then nodded. "Okay."

Swinging his legs out from under the covers, Lincoln got to his feet and switched the light off, then followed Lydia to the room she shared with Ilena. She went confidently ahead, bold because her dad was with her and thus nothing bad could happen, and jumped on the downy bed. Lincoln smiled fondly as she got under the covers, then slid in beside her. "I like your bed," he said as he settled into a comfortable position.

"Me too," she said, "it's really cozy. Too cozy sometimes."

The fact that she didn't want to get out of it most mornings determined that to be the truth.

"My bed's hard."

"I know," she said, "it's like a rock."

"Your mom likes the bed firm."

"Get a Sleep Number," she said, "you can adjust your side to be soft."

He grinned. "Maybe."

For a long time, neither spoke, and Lincoln started to drift off. He was almost asleep when Lydia spoke, her voice halting. "I'm scared to go back to sleep."

"Why?" Lincoln asked and wrapped his arm protectively around his daughter.

She scooted closer to him, and that's when he noticed she was trembling in fright. "That dream was really scary."

"What was it about?" he asked.

She didn't reply for a moment. "I can't really remember, but there was a really weird Hispanic lady." She shuddered, and the hairs on the back of Lincoln's neck stood up. What she said next petrified him, and he started to shake too.

"She was really mad...and said she should be my mommy."

Spooky.