My 6-year-old grandson called me crying, “Grandpa, I’m scared. Please help me.” I drove through a blizzard to my daughter’s house, but my son-in-law blocked the door and said he was asleep. Then I looked past him—and what I saw made my blood boil.

The storm was a blinding white wall. Richard could barely see his own hands. He reached the small, rectangular window of the basement. Inside, he could see a faint, flickering light.

Mark was no longer at the door. He was standing over Claire, his back to the window, holding the phone. "I know, I know! The old man showed up. I'll take care of it. Just keep the car running at the end of the road."

Richard felt a surge of adrenaline. He wasn't alone. There was someone else out here.

He swung the pry bar, shattering the window glass. Mark whirled around, his face a mask of fury. Richard reached through the broken frame, grabbed the metal grate, and ripped it off its hinges. Before Mark could get to the window, Richard threw a heavy bag of rock salt—which he had kept by the foundation—straight through the opening.

The bag exploded, sending salt and grit flying into the room. Mark recoiled, shielding his face. Richard took the opportunity to jump into the basement, landing hard on the concrete.

Mark turned, his eyes wild. He grabbed a heavy metal pipe from the furnace stack.

"You should have stayed in your truck, Richard!"

They circled each other. The room was small, the air thick with the smell of damp concrete and danger. Richard was older, but he was stronger in ways that mattered—he was fighting for his blood.

Mark swung the pipe. Richard ducked, the metal whistling inches above his head. He swung the bolt cutters, catching Mark in the shoulder. Mark grunted, stumbling back against the wall—the same wall where the black graffiti glared down at them.

"You're nothing!" Mark screamed. "Claire was just a step on the ladder!"

Richard didn't argue. He surged forward, putting all his weight into a tackle. They crashed to the floor, rolling over the freezing concrete. Richard found his footing, slamming Mark’s head into the floor. Mark went limp, the pipe sliding away.

Richard stood, panting. He looked over at Claire. She was stirring. Noah was crawling toward her, tears streaming down his face.

"Grandpa?" the boy whispered.