When They Came For You by Dorothy Davies

When They Came For You

(Dorothy Davies)

When They Came For You


Even when you're dead you shouldn't lie down and let yourself be buried.

Gordon Lee





Abduction -Dan Allen

Susurrus – Jim Dyar

Death Dealers – Nicole Givens Kurtz

Earth And Smoke And Iron - Sandra Davies

Bitten - Olivia Arieti

Last Stop - Justin Boote

The Song Of The Sea - Rie Sheridan Rose

Night Vision – Wendy Lynn Newton

When The Night Bus Comes – David Turnbull

The Price of Ignorance - Wondra Vanian

Maggoty Jo – Diane Arelle

When the Devil Knocks - Olivia Arieti

Journey Into Darkness – Stuart Holland

To Die For – Chris Rodriguez

Gilded Demons – Terrie Avery

The Gypsy Curse – Mark Towse

Telling The Bees – Dona Fox

Stealing Souls – Justin Boote

Canvassing - Michael B. Fletcher

Payback – Michael H. Hanson

When They Come For You – Rie Sheridan Rose

Can You Not Smell Them – Dona Fox

Tragic Lullaby – Jim Dyar

Just A Woman  - Frances Gow

Devil’s Spawn – Diane Arrelle

In The Small Hours – Gary Budgen



Book 1 - Abduction

Dan Allen


Ruth stares at a blank television screen. Yesterday she watched the entirety of The Sound of Music this way, even tapping along to the songs and singing when she remembered the words. Today her mind is blank. A slice of soft bread sits in an unplugged toaster. A tea bag rests at the bottom of a cup of cold water. If this is breakfast, the old woman has lost interest. 

The phone rings and Ruth doesn’t flinch. The noise is far away and its purpose is not clear. It rings until replaced with a monotone request to leave a message.

“Hello, Mom? You need to pick up the phone. It’s me, Joan.”

A garbage truck stops in front of Ruth’s bungalow. There are banging noises and men arguing. Something crashes on the sidewalk and Ruth grabs the armrest of her rocker. Her fingernails penetrate the wood.

“Please, Mom. Answer the phone.“

Ruth doesn’t recognize the voice; she believes the words have come from the television.




Gunshots, breaking glass and men shouting wake the girl. She looks out the second-floor window and watches a uniformed man throw a torch through a broken window. Yesterday it was the bookstore, she says to herself.  Today it’s the bakery. She slides to the floor and hugs her knees. A truck rumbles down the street and screeches to a stop. Hard leather boots stomp over cobblestones, each step sounding synchronized as if choreographed.

The girl dares take another look. Soldiers drag a woman and her child, forcing them into the back of the truck. Just like the other families, she thinks. They pull a man from the building and beat him to his knees. Jacob, the baker. The girl presses a hand against her heart as if to stop it from breaking. Another soldier in a perfectly fitted black uniform points a pistol at the baker’s head. The girl has never seen an officer before, at least not this close, and is mesmerized by the contrast of the bright red armband against the black uniform. She watches his grip tighten on the luger. The baker topples a second before the blast echoes down the street.

The girl covers her ears and screams. She shrieks until her face goes red and tears blur her vision. She takes a breath and covers her mouth. Did they hear me? she wonders. Did I give myself away?




Ruth’s skin is paper-thin, her once beautiful legs now fragile sticks, and her teeth abandon her nearly as fast as her memories. She has no idea how old she is but curiously remembers her birth date being in August 1925. What that has to do with her age, she has no clue.

The phone rings again.

“Mom, I’m just calling to remind you that we are picking you up tonight. You’ll only need to pack for a couple of days. I’ll send the rest of your things over later.”

Still dressed in her housecoat and slippers, Ruth watches out the window and stares at a fire hydrant. She slowly shakes her head. That little girl has been waiting there all day. Parents these days don’t deserve children.

“Mom, pick up. I know you can hear me. We’ve been over this a hundred times. You’re going to like Rosewood Manor. You’ll meet lots of new friends, eat great food and wait till you see the games room!”




Harshly spoken commands direct the familiar sound of boots running. They come closer and closer. Now at the entrance to her building. They heard me she thinks and she stops breathing. Fists pound on the door, someone barks orders and the soldiers demand entry. Her flesh freezes as if covered in ice. She knew this day would come but still isn’t prepared. Hide. Now! The girl squeezes behind a massive armoire; her petit body starved thin enough to make it possible.

Wood splinters and breaks. She flinches at the sound of the front door crashing against the wall. Footsteps thunder up the stairs. The girl tries to count how many. Two? Six? No, at least ten soldiers. More than enough to find me. She misses her mother and recites a prayer.

The soldiers make a lot of noise, running from room to room. They yell at each other, not in her language, but she knows it well enough to understand. There’s another noise, like a hush. Seconds later, the soldiers retreat. Everything is quiet, but the girl doesn’t relax. It’s a trick, she tells herself. There wasn’t as much thumping on the stairs. They haven’t all left. She holds her breath, afraid to make a sound. Something tickles her foot and she watches a spider crawl over her toes. She sucks in more air, good on top of bad and her chest cavity expands. A button from her sweater snags and pops off. The glass disc plinks on the first bounce then rolls out from under the armoire, sounding louder than a handful of marbles on a hardwood floor.

“What do we have here?” The man speaks with a thick accent. An accent that causes her skin to crawl every time she hears it. “Come out from behind there, little gutter rat.”




A banging sound wakes Ruth and she gasps. An old fear rushes through her veins like a shot of adrenalin. She hears her front door open and her hands tremble. A single thought flashes in her mind. Hide. She slides into the broom closet, not quite fitting and leaves the door ajar.

“I got the bedroom. Check the kitchen.”