My son and his wife asked me to look after their two-month-old baby while they went out shopping. But no matter how gently I rocked him or how desperately I tried to soothe him, he would not stop crying

Shards of glass rained across the hardwood floor as a heavy figure vaulted through the broken window frame. I screamed, clutching the baby tightly against my shoulder and spinning around to race toward the upstairs stairs.

"Stay where you are!" a harsh voice barked from the living room.

I didn't stop. Adrenaline fueled my legs as I sprinted up the steps, taking them two at a time. The baby was crying hysterically now, terrified by the sudden violence. I reached the top landing, ducked into the master bedroom, and slammed the heavy wooden door shut, clicking the privacy lock into place.

My breath came in ragged gasps. I looked around the room—there was no second exit, only a large window overlooking the front driveway. Footsteps heavy and deliberate began to ascend the wooden stairs, creaking loudly with every single step.

One, two, three.

They stopped right outside the bedroom door.

I backed away until my knees hit the edge of the bed. I held the baby close, pressing his face into my neck so he wouldn't make a sound. My phone was still clutched in my hand, the call with David disconnected. I didn't dare redial. Every sound seemed amplified a thousand times over.

The doorknob slowly turned. It rattled against the latch, testing the lock. Then, a low, gravelly voice spoke from the other side of the wood.