First Place Winner: 2026 Kathryn McClatchy Flash Fiction Contest

The Break-In by Jolea Broome

The Break-In

I should have called the police two days ago when I first noticed the men poking around

my property taking photos. At the time, I thought maybe they worked for the bank and were

taking photos of my house because it was in foreclosure. I can’t remember the last time I paid a

bill; my granddaughter, Rachel, takes care of my finances now. At any rate, I stayed hidden in

my living room and peeked through the sheer curtains framing the windows overlooking the

spacious front yard until they left.

This evening, I was just rousing from a nap when I heard male voices outside. I was

surprised to see the sun had already set, and it was now dark in the room, except for the dim light

from the window illuminating the Steinway piano. Since my wife’s death a decade ago, the piano

has sat, untouched, unplayed and gathering dust. It is probably terribly out of tune by now, but I

refuse to donate it. Playing the piano had been my wife’s favorite pastime. And so, the piano sits,

a great ghost in the room.

The voices outside now louder, I peek once again out the window beside the front door.

Three dark figures were making their way closer, crossing the lawn at a hurried pace. The largest

one had a bulky satchel over his right shoulder and the leader was carrying a flashlight in one

hand and a handheld monitor in the other. The shadows approached from the east of the house

and showed no signs of precaution. To a passerby, they looked like they belonged here at my

home, not that anyone ever passed by, being this far out in the country. I don’t even remember

the last time I saw a neighbor, let alone spoke to one.

At the sight of the satchel, the anger I initially felt at their trespass turns to concern.

Surely, they are not planning to harm me. I bang on the window and shout threateningly, “Get off

my lawn!”

The leader of the group looks up as the monitor in his hands begins beeping faintly. He

holds the light up for the others to see and they slow to a stop and begin staring towards the

house. I wave my arms as if to shoo them away but still they advance. BigBoy sets his satchel on

the ground and unzips it. I strain to see what he pulls out as it is much too dark to make anything

out from this distance.

I shuffle from the front door to the window above the couch to get a better look, but they

have already disappeared around the side of the house by the time I make my way across the

room. I hear them laughing and whispering as they approach the French doors along the dining

room behind me. My first thought is to call 911, then I remember the landline was disconnected

years ago by my granddaughter who thought it was a waste of money. I have long since forgotten

where the cell phone has disappeared to, so I move frenetically around the room, contemplating

my next move.

The sound of squeaking metal pierces the quiet and I instantly understand where they are.

A few years ago, one of the shutters on an upstairs window became dislodged from a bad

windstorm and I decided to take care of the issue myself. I dragged the metal ladder out of the

garage and propped it against the side of the house. Tucking a hammer in the loop of the overalls

I wear every day and filling the bib with nails, I climbed to the edge of the eave and began

hitching the wooden shutter to sit level.

As I lined up the nails to secure one side of the shutter in place, the hammer slipped from

my grip, and I lurched forward to catch it. In doing so, I lost my balance and down the ladder I

slipped, landing on the ground with a thud. The blow knocked me out for what must have been a

full day, perhaps even two, for when I came to the sun was just rising over the horizon. The

ladder remains in the yard, rusting.

I navigate my way upstairs as quickly as my popping joints allow and quietly pad down

the hallway, guided only by the sound of breaking glass. Cautiously, I peer through the slightly

ajar door and see that the men have made entry through a broken window and are exploring the

empty room. BigBoy sets something resembling a transistor radio in the middle of the room.

“Jere, check out the monitor,” the leader whispers. The three men watch the flickering red

light as it climbs across the screen.

“Whoa,” BigBoy breathes, “there’s definitely something here.” He takes the monitor

from the leader and Jere turns the radio on. The room turns eerily quiet as they strain to make

sense of the signal coming through from the radio.

The leader reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a folded piece of paper. Unfolding

it, he holds it up to the empty room. I can tell right away it is an obituary. “My name is Glen,” he

says, “and we are here to speak with Ned Haut. Are you here, Ned?”

I stand, transfixed. How do these boys know me? Why are they here? I stride forward

into the room confidently and answer, “Yes.”

The radio echoes my response in a staticky, garbled voice and the monitor goes crazy,

chirping loudly, the red light pinging back and forth quickly. The group, obviously spooked,

abandon their gear and bolt out the window, the obituary floating to the ground. I bend over and

lift the paper, shocked to see my own face smiling up at me from the page. Still holding the

obituary, I lean out the window and holler. The only response is from the radio as it repeats my

words once again. “Come back.”