NaNoWriMo 2009
Back in 2005, my NaNoWriMo project was Mack the Knife, a paranormal story about a ghostly killer who protected one family. I eventually edited out the paranormal elements of the story and fleshed out Mack's character, including writing up his back story in my piece Family Reunion. This year, my NaNoWriMo project is a rewrite of my original story, changing around some elements and hopefully making it better. While some of the plot points might remain the same, it is a completely new story that will not be re-using any of the writing from 2005. I'm even going with a new title, going from Mack the Knife to The Guardian Murders.

My goals this year, besides the normal goal of finishing the story, are twofold. First, I want to improve upon my original novel and tell a better story with more developed characters, a more interesting mystery, and more moral ambiguity. Second, this is a good chance to compare my current writing style with where I was in 2005 and see how I've improved and where I need work.

After one night, I am 1,822 words done. The first chapter can be found below the cut.



The intruder didn't care about locks and he didn't care about lives. He knelt patiently at the front door of the Cassotto home, twisting a piece of wire in the keyhole of the front door and listening for the telltale sound of the tumblers clicking open. The house creaked and moaned in the midnight wind, whispering to the intruder about the victims inside.

Three.

# # #

Duncan didn't hear footsteps. He didn't see the black on black shadow of the intruder slipping through the front door and down the hall. He felt himself jump and didn't even know why at first. Only after stopping his search and thinking for a moment did he realize that he felt a draft. Holding his flashlight high, he slipped out of the living room and toward the door. Dead autumn leaves blew across the welcome mat where the previously locked portal had been left ajar.

"Damn," he breathed. He stopped ten paces away from the door and reached for the cell phone in his pocket. Only then did the intruder make his presence known. He seemed to take form behind his victim like a ghost in the darkness. Duncan heard nothing - the weight of a gloved hand on his shoulder was the first indication that he was not alone. The hand slid across his collarbone until it was right underneath his chin. Then it darted upwards, pulling his head back as the intruder's other hand came into view. This hand had something in it. Duncan noticed the dull gleam of metal before the intruder struck.

Duncan spun away, but not before the intruder had done his work. The blade bit into his skin, cutting hard and fast. He heard a high-pitched wheezing sound escaping from his slashed throat before he even felt any pain. Lurching forward, he turned in a staggering pirouette to face his attacker. He fell forward before his eyes could focus. A trembling, clammy hand touched his wound, and he realized it belonged to him. In one strike the intruder had cut through his jugular vein, carving a bloody lop-sided grin into his neck. Duncan's vision blurred. He gasped for air. His unsteady hands grabbed at the carpet, trying to drag him toward his enemy. In the light of the dropped flashlight, he saw a pair of black shoes, well-crafted but worn. Then a black leather glove touched the flashlight and turned it off. Duncan heard the footsteps this time as they strode off the carpet and tapped across a wooden floor. The intruder was leaving now, his work in this room finished. Before Duncan's sight faded completely, he saw the intruder's shadow stop at the end of the hallway. The wide brim of a fedora hat tilted as the shadow lifted his ear, taking stock of the sounds in the rest of the house.

Two.

# # #

Someone had turned the kitchen light on. Sandra stepped into the room just as the tea kettle reached a boil. The shrill whistle cut through the otherwise quiet night air. With a curse and a shake of her head, Sandra rushed to the stove and turned off the burner. She moved the tea kettle off the heat, ending its steam-induced scream.

Then she held her breath. The tapping of a foot on the linoleum floor told her she wasn't alone. She turned around to see an unfamiliar man standing next to her in what had seconds ago been an empty room. He wore a black trench coat, shirt, and tie. He had an old-fashioned hat on - something out of an old-fashioned film noir. He had pale skin, as though he had never stepped into the sun. Sandra swallowed as the man gestured casually toward the kettle.

"The tea's ready," he said in a quiet voice.

On instinct, Sandra kicked out at the newcomer, trying to hit him in the stomach or groin. The intruder countered with ease, raising his knee to block and turning the blow aside. Then he grabbed her arms and heaved her across the room without so much as a grunt of effort. Stars filled Sandra's vision as she hit the wall. She coughed as she staggered back to her feet. But by the time she had stood up again, the intruder was already waiting. The sizzle of burning skin was all too audible as the intruder slammed the still-hot tea metal teakettle against the side of her head. She hit the floor again and the intruder was on top of her in an instant. One knee pressed into her stomach, knocking the wind out of her and keeping her from being able to effectively move her legs. The other dug into the base of her throat. Sandra gasped for air and only got a gurgle. She tried clawing at the man with her fingernails, but strong hands pressed her arms against the kitchen floor. Her struggles grew weaker and weaker as white spots spread across her vision - her brain's last-ditch attempt to remind her that she needed oxygen. Then her eyes closed and she stopped moving.

The intruder kept Sandra pinned for a few minutes more until her body stopped convulsing. When he was sure she wouldn't be getting back up, he stood up and smoothed out his coat. On the second floor, a baby boy started to cry. The intruder left the kitchen and walked toward the stairway.

One more.

# # #

Shelley Cassotto rocked her baby from side to side in her arms. It was a poor effort. She could whisper all the sweet words of assurance she wanted into Chris's ears, but they meant nothing when she couldn't keep her own heart from racing. Her cell phone lay open on the floor next to the bed. She could hear the 911 operator's voice on the other end, but didn't give any response. She didn't need to hear someone tell her that emergency vehicles were on their way. She already knew they would arrive too late.

She heard footsteps coming up the staircase and cursed herself for not running earlier. Burglars, she had thought at first. Stay hidden, call the police. No need to make a stupid move like running out the back door and getting shot in the ensuing panic. Just lay low and make sure Chris is safe. Let the police take care of it, she had thought. But now she knew that she wasn't dealing with burglars. The footsteps approached her room specifically, drawn by the sound of Chris's wailing. The man outside tested the knob, only to find that Shelley had locked the door. That made for only a minor delay.

A gunshot rang out. Chris screamed louder. Shelley shouted louder still. She crouched low between her bed and Chris's crib as someone kicked the door, destroying what was left of the now-shattered lock. A man stepped into the room, his gun raised and ready. He circled the bed until he had a clear shot at Shelley and Chris. Then, as every new second became a new nightmare to Shelley Cassotto, the man gave a wide, cruel grin.

"Shelley Cassotto," he said. "And little Chris."

Shelley shook her head - not in response, but out of denial of what was about to happen. Shoot me, she thought, but not my boy. The smile on the man's face told her all she needed to know, though. The bastard had no intent of sparing either of them.

The gun was a simple revolver - old-fashioned, but still perfectly deadly. The man pulled the hammer back. Then everything got quiet.

Chris had stopped crying.

Underneath the child's wail and the man's sadistic gloating, another sound had been creeping toward them. Another pair of footsteps had crept up the stairs, moving with a consistent staccato rhythm. And now, forming out of the shadows, another person had entered the room. He was tall with pale skin and dressed in black literally from head to toe. A gloved hand landed hard on the man's shoulder. With a growl, Shelley's would-be killer turned away from her to deal with this momentary distraction. Chris remained silent, but Shelley let out another scream. She was about to watch a man die.

The intruder didn't flinch as the barrel of the gun came level with his eyes. Those gray eyes simply hardened to stone, locking onto the gunman's face and issuing a silent challenge.

A look of recognition spread over the other man's face. His hand started to tremble. Then with a clatter, the gun dropped to the floor.

"I...I wasn't-" started the man.

"Yes, you were," said the intruder. He looked away from his final victim only briefly, those gray eyes darting toward Shelley. "Cover your son's eyes."

Shelley did as she was told, shielding Chris's eyes with her hand and tilting his head upwards so the only thing he could see was mommy.

The intruder's hand darted to his side. In an instant, an empty black glove seemed to summon up a six-inch long knife. Then his arm flashed forward again, cutting a deadly ribbon into the air. It slowed only a little as it met with the gunman's skin. It cut across the man's throat and carried with it a trail of blood that seemed to hover in the air for a sickening moment before splattering across the sheets of Shelley's bed.

Shelley didn't look. She kept her eyes locked onto her son's face. The little boy grabbed a fistful of her long brown hair and tugged. A splatter of water landed on his pajamas, and Shelley realized that she had started crying.

The gunman's body dropped to the floor and the room fell into silence for a long minute. Eventually, Shelley heard a small scratchy voice coming through the cell phone on the floor. Without looking at the intruder, Shelley crawled to the phone and picked it up.

"Miss Cassotto, are you okay? Police are on their way. If you can hear me, find a safe place to hide."

"Tell them that everything's okay," said the man in the trench coat.

"I'm...we're fine," Shelley whispered into the phone.

"Stay on the line," said the intruder. "They'll want to know everything that happened."

Shelley looked at the crow-like man standing in front of her. The knife that had just slaughtered another human being had disappeared once again, absorbed into the black void that seemed to surround this newcomer. When she realized that her mouth was hanging open, she spoke again. "Who are you?"

"Make sure to tell them everything," he said, ignoring her question. Then he turned and walked out the door. Shelley didn't follow.

The police arrived within another five minutes - too late, had it not been for a stranger's intervention. The intruder, now the guardian, was long gone. By the time an officer found Shelley, Chris had fallen asleep in her arms.