John was positive he'd heard a crash downstairs. It sounded like someone had knocked the lamp with the glass shade off of its table. He always had thought that his wife had put it in a bad place - the table was too rickety and right near the door. If you weren't careful, you'd surely knock it down.

He knew he had to investigate. He'd investigated noises before, but never anything this loud and clear. Not surprisingly, his wife had slept right through it.

Inching his way out of bed, he crept over to his dresser, opened it up, and loaded his gun. His wife didn't like him having it in the house, but he knew that it was for their own protection. After a night like tonight, he was positive her opinion would change. The dashing hero saving his family from the bloodthirsty killer downstairs. Let's see a baseball bat do that.

As quietly as he could, he shuffled down the hallway to the top of the stairs. More noises from downstairs. Someone was righting the table. Probably picking up bits of the lampshade as well. A considerate burglar, John thought. Ha. Won't do him any good.

He pressed up against the wall and held his gun out in front of him. Slowly, he inched his way down the stairs, crouching as he passed the ceiling and the floor came into view. He could see that the lamp was broken, but didn't see anything else unusual in the room. Since it was clear, he quickly hopped down the last few steps to the first floor.

It was dark, but as best as he could tell the damage was contained to the lamp. He'd always hated that lamp anyway, but it was still his lamp in his house and he wasn't happy. He cocked the hammer on the gun. A door creaked in the kitchen. The closet door.

He spun around with his gun out. The kitchen had a clear view of the living room, and the closet was right in the front. There was a good chance that whoever was in the house had seen him and tried to hide. John's heart raced. A run-of-the-mill burglar would try to escape if he was in danger of being caught - only a psychopath would stay.

He ran down the dark hallway, his robe flapping at his sides. The closet door was slightly ajar. In one fluid motion, he turned on the kitchen lights, swung open the door, and raised his gun.

Their six year old son had gotten up to get a glass of water and accidentally knocked over the lamp. Seeing his father, he'd decided to play a joke. "BOO!" he shouted as his father opened the door.

John shot him right between the eyes.