"What the—what the hell was that?" Stephanie whispered.

"I—I don’t know," replied Debbie. "It—it came from downstairs, whatever it was."

Another thump followed, this one slightly louder, followed by the faint sound of glass breaking.

"Oh, shit!" Stephanie hissed. "What was that?"

Debbie didn’t answer this time; instead, the two invisible women froze, listening intently for any further sounds. Faintly, very faintly, they heard hushed, muffled voices coming from downstairs.

"Oh, shit!" Stephanie repeated. "What—? Who is that? I thought we were alone here!"

"We are alone!" Debbie answered. "Or, at least, I thought we were!"

The two remained motionless for another few seconds, until more muffled sounds came from downstairs. Then both women simultaneously leapt up from their positions and hurried over to the door on tiptoes. Quietly, Debbie turned the knob and opened the door a tiny crack, then cautiously opened it wider, enough to hear sounds through it. She heard hushed, deep voices coming from the stairwell. She couldn’t make out what was said, but instinctively, something told her that those voices didn’t belong there.

"Oh, shit!" she hissed. "I think there are burglars downstairs!"

"Oh, my god!" Stephanie let out a tiny squeal. "omigod, omigod…! I don’t believe this, I don’t believe this! Well, what do we do? What do we do?" she asked, frantically waving the sleeves of her robe.

"I don’t know, I don’t-- Wait! We call the cops, that’s what we do! We’ll call the— Where’s the phone? Where’s the—"

"I think I saw it over there…"

"Omigod, omigod, omigod…" Debbie repeated her friend’s words as the two empty robes quickly fluttered across the large bedroom to a night-stand beside the bed, where a cellular phone rested. The black robe reached out an empty sleeve to the night-stand, and the cellphone floated up from its surface as Debbie picked it up.

"Dial nine-one-one! Dial nine-one-one!" Stephanie loudly whispered, still frantically waving her empty sleeves.

"I know, I know!" Debbie whispered in reply, trying not to sound as frightened as she actually was. She paused, "Hey, wait a minute!" she said, lowering the phone. "We can’t call the cops; Bob has to!"

"What?!? What are you talking about?"

"This is his house! If we call the cops, they’ll ask for our names and everything. What are we supposed to tell them? I mean, technically, we’re not even supposed to be here! And when the cops get here, they’re going to want to see us and question us and all that crap. And when they don’t see us anywhere, they’ll ask where we are and what’s Bob supposed to tell them? And how’s he going to explain all that stuff?" An empty sleeve motioned to the bits and pieces of lingerie strewn all over the bed and floor. "No…no, it’s better if they never even knew we were here."

The cell phone floated back down to the night-stand and the black robe turned and fluttered over to Bob’s sleeping form on the bed and crouched over it. The empty sleeves of the robe quickly flew past Bob’s face as Debbie repeatedly slapped his cheeks, trying to awaken him. "Bob! Bob!" she hissed. "Wake up, Bob; wake up!"

"Wha-wha-wha—" Bob muttered groggily, emerging from his contented slumber. "Whattaya do, whattaya do…" he clumsily tried to shield his face from the unseen hands slapping him. The hands then grabbed his face, gripping his cheeks tightly, as Debbie spoke directly at him. "Bob, will you please wake up??!? We got trouble! Real trouble!"

Bob finally opened his eyes and found himself staring down the open collar of an empty black silk robe, its empty sleeves hanging in space near his face, which was gripped by cold, clammy, unseen hands. Momentarily forgetting the evening’s earlier events, he instinctively recoiled in terror. "GAAAAAAHHHH!" he cried, pulling away and burying his face in the pillow.

"Bob! Bob, will you listen?" Stephanie cried, now joining Debbie’s efforts to awaken him. "It’s us: Debbie & Steph! Come on, Bob; you remember!"

Slowly, Bob’s face gradually emerged from the pillow. He blinked twice, and sighed, immediately relaxing. He raked his fingers through his hair, trying to regain his composure. "I knew that," he said, trying to sound casual. "I just…forgot, that’s all." He yawned widely, stretching. "What time is it?" he said, groggily.

"Never mind that!" Debbie said, grabbing his shoulders and shaking him. "Listen! We think we heard burglars downstairs! You need to call the cops!"

Bob laughed. "Burglars?!? What are you talkin’—"

"Shhhhhh!" Stephanie hushed him. "They’ll hear you; they’re right downstairs! Now you need to call the—"

Bob chuckled. "Burglars? In this neighborhood? Come on, there are no burglars! Not around here!"

"But there are! They’re right down—"

"Oh come on! Get real! This is a gated community! How could a burglar possibly get in here? They’d have to get past the gate and there’s a security guard posted there 24 hours a day."

Had Bob been able to see the faces of his guests just then, he’d have seen both their eyes open wide to the size of hubcaps. As it was, he only heard Stephanie utter, in the tiniest voice: "Oops…!"

The tone of her voice instantly erased the smile on Bob’s face. He didn’t know what the "Oops" meant, but his gut-feeling was that it was not something good. "Oops?" he repeated, staring hard at the empty space above headless pink robe. "What do you mean, ‘Oops’?"

A long silence followed, during which the black robe turned to face the pink one, its empty sleeves folded, as if impatiently, in front. "Well?" Debbie said at last. "Are you going to tell him or do I have to?"

"Me?" Stephanie replied, stunned. "Why do I have to tell him? It’s not my fault!"

"Well, it sure as hell isn’t mine!"

"Well, this whole thing wasn’t my idea!"

"Oh sure! Blame it on me!"

"Now, look--!"

"Ladies, ladies, please," Bob interrupted, trying to calm his two ghostly guests. "Now look, there’s probably nothing to worry about, but if it’ll set your minds at ease, I’ll go downstairs and have a look around myself, all right? And you’ll see: There’s nothing to worry about." He turned and walked to his closet, where he pulled out a shirt and slacks and quickly slipped them on.

"Bob, what are you doing?" Debbie asked in dismay. "Aren’t you going to call the cops?" She grabbed up the phone from the night stand and waved it in his face. He calmly took the phone from her and slipped it into the pocket of his slacks.

"No, no," he said, trying to sound reassuring, but instead managing to only sound patronizing instead. "There’s no need to call the police. I’m just going to take a look downstairs, that’s all. And you’ll see: There’s nothing to worry about."

"Bob, are you crazy?!?" Stephanie hissed. "Are you out of your mind?!? I mean, we don’t know who that could be downstairs! They could be killers, for all we know! Do you want to get your throat cut or something?"

"Look, I’m telling you: There’s nothing to worry about!" Bob repeated, if just a bit impatiently. "But if it’ll make you feel better, I’ll take along my buddy." With that, he reached into the closet again, and pulled out a heavy iron bar, approximately three feet in length and one half-inch in diameter. "There, see? All right?" he said, hefting the heavy bar in his hands.

Debbie and Stephanie stared at the bar in disbelief, as though Bob were trying to make a very bad joke. "That’s your ‘buddy?’" Debbie said.

"Sure is. When I was a kid, growing up in the Tenderloin, he was my best friend. Took him to school with me every day, just in case some dirtbag tried to mess with me." He hefted the bar in his hands a couple of times, with a nostalgic smile on his face, then turned to the bedroom door.

"Bob, please!" Debbie said, standing in front of him, blocking his way. "Will you please use some sense? Steph’s right: this is a job for the police! Call them, for God’s sake!"

"Now, now, everything’s under control," he said, gently moving the empty black robe out of his way and opening the door. "Now, you two stay here; I’ll be back in just a few minutes," he said, stepping out into the hallway and closing the door behind him.

"Bob!" Stephanie and Debbie stage-whispered together. Then they turned to face each other, and although they couldn’t see each other’s faces, they both knew they were thinking the same thing.

"MEN!!" Debbie was the first to speak aloud what they were both thinking. "They’re all alike! They’ve got more balls than brains!!" she snorted in disgust.

"The two rarely go together, you know!" Stephanie agreed.

"Macho!! They always gotta be macho! Always gotta be the big, tough, friggin’ hero!! Fat lot of good it’ll do him if he gets himself killed!!"

"Well, screw this!" Stephanie announced decisively, after a moment’s hesitation. "I’m calling the cops anyway!" The pink robe fluttered across the room to the night-stand by the bed, where it came to a halt. "Oh, shit!" Stephanie hissed. "Where’s the damn phone?!? It was just here!!"

"Bob took it," Debbie answered. "I remember: He put it in his pocket."

"Well, that’s just great!" Stephanie muttered. "That’s just wonderful! Now what are we supposed to do?"

"I don’t know, I don’t— Hey, wait a minute," the tone of Debbie’s voice abruptly changed, as thought she suddenly realized something she hadn’t thought of before. "What are we getting so scared for? We’re invisible, remember? Hello? We can sneak down there ourselves and see what’s going on!"

One sleeve of the pink robe quickly flew up, accompanied by a sharp smack, as Stephanie slapped her forehead. "Oh!" she said, utterly embarrassed. "Of course! OH, I feel like such an idiot! Why didn’t I think…? I guess I was just so scared…"

"Never mind that, we’ve got to help Bob now." With that, the black robe quickly reached its sleeves up and slipped itself off the unseen shoulders beneath, and fluttered over to the bed; the pink robe likewise followed moments later. Two sets of ghostly footprints then appeared in the thick, soft carpet as the two invisible women walked to the door, opened it quietly and stepped out into the hall. Quietly, they crept down the hallway to the stairs.

"Steph!" Debbie whispered. "Steph! Where are you? Are you there?"

"I’m over here," Stephanie answered from somewhere behind her and to her left.

"Give me your hand so we don’t get separated."

Each woman reached a hand out to the other, and with a few brief exchanges of "Where’s-your-hand-give-me-your-hand-where-here-where-here-I’m-over-here-not-there," the two eventually made physical contact, and together, they crept cautiously down the stairs.

 

---

 

Bob wasn’t afraid. He was, in fact, a little amused. Women, he thought with a smile. They always think they hear burglars…particularly when a guy’s just trying to get some sleep! They always— Just then, Bob’s thoughts were interrupted by a sudden peal of loud, raucous laughter coming from downstairs. He froze. What the hell was that? he thought, gripping the iron bar tighter in his hands, and taking another couple of steps down the stairs. There followed the sounds of other, heavy, rough-sounding voices. Son of a…! he thought, clenching his jaw. I’ll be damned…! There really are burglars in the house! Son of a…! Who the hell is that…?

Now Bob was angry! Outraged! Pissed! REALLY pissed! He didn’t know who the hell it was that had broken into his house, but he damned well wanted to find out and hand them their heads! He sure as hell didn’t work his butt off all his life, getting himself out of that crappy neighborhood on a football scholarship and play ten seasons of pro ball, only to have some no-good dirtbag punks just walk right in and help themselves to everything he worked his life for. No, if they’d so much as put a finger on any of his belongings, he was going to take it out on their hides and a pound and a half of their flesh… Then he’d maybe call the cops, and they could scrape up whatever was left…

He crept down the stairs and came to a stop at the landing. The laughing voices were louder now, and came from direction of Bob’s trophy room, towards the back of the house.

"Lookit this, lookit this!" one of the voices said. "Checkout this candyass shit!" There followed the loud crash of something shattering, followed by another roar of laughter from several voices.

So help me, if they’ve so much as laid a finger on one of my trophies, I’ll break their backs…! He gripped the iron bar with white knuckles, and clenched his jaw.

He crept up to the doorway of the trophy room and peered cautiously inside. In the room were four extremely rough, dangerous-looking individuals, of varying sizes, all similarly-attired. The head of the largest one (who seemed as large and wide as the average industrial-sized refrigerator) nearly touched the ceiling. Or so it seemed to Bob. He immediately recognized all of the intruders as obvious members of a gang. Real scumbags! he thought, instinctively. He’d grown up around enough such lowlife back in his old neighborhood, so he could easily spot one a mile away when he saw it.

Ahhh, he’s not so tough, Bob thought, as he looked up at the largest gang-member. Not like that bastard 88, back in the ’92 game… That son of a bitch had it in for me personally! This moron I can handle easy… Take him out first and the others’ll topple like ten-pins… Bob took a breath, gripped the bar tighter, shouldered it like a baseball-bat, tensing himself to rush the huge gang-member with one swift charge, and to follow immediately with counter-blows at the others, before they had a chance to react.

Fortunately, at the last split-second, Bob’s better sense prevailed. It finally occurred to him just then, that even if he was lucky enough to deliver a disabling blow to the largest gang-member, there were still three others to deal with, and he began to have doubts that he could take them all on at once. Assuming they weren’t carrying any weapons, which was another possibility that occurred to Bob just then.

Well, he thought upon reflection. Maybe calling the cops isn’t such a bad idea after all…

He had just started to back away from the doorway, reaching into his pocket to retrieve the cellphone, when one of the gang-members spotted him. The gang-member (the leader, as it turned out) looked Bob right in the eye with the unmistakable look of cold-hearted evil. He gave a quick shout to the others:

"Dim! Pete! George! Get him! Get the son of a bitch! Get him, get him, GET HIM!!!"

The other three gang-members shot through the doorway like three cannonballs, and in an instant, Bob was surrounded. But he reacted equally as fast. He quickly sidestepped the three, swinging the iron bar wildly to his left and right. He managed to land a couple of solid blows to two of the gang-members, taking out both knees of the largest one, and landing a good, solid crack to the skull of one of the medium-sized ones. It was a glancing blow, not enough to put out the gang-member’s lights permanently, but enough to take him out of commission for a while, and he crumpled to the floor like a house of cards. Meanwhile, the largest gang-member howled and cursed loudly, as he tried to cradle both his injured knees simultaneously, and for a moment, it looked as though Bob might actually emerge victorious from the scuffle.

But just as quickly, the tide soon turned against Bob. The leader suddenly rushed him headlong, head-butting him in the stomach. Bob reared back, preparing to strike at his assailant with the iron bar, when it was suddenly grabbed away from him from behind by the remaining gang-member. The gang-member quickly flung the bar aside, then grabbed Bob’s arms, pinning them behind him. The leader of the gang followed through on this motion by landing three rapid blows in quick succession to Bob’s solar plexus, thus effectively knocking the wind out of him.

But Bob still wasn’t about to give up without a fight. He kicked furiously with both legs at the leader, while simultaneously twisting his body this way and that, trying to break the grip of the gang-member who still held fast to his arms. But it was a futile effort. Bob’s kicks fell short of the mark, and more blows were delivered to his jaw, ribs, and midsection, and in the end, he was overpowered. His knees gave way and he’d have fallen to the floor, but for the fact that his arms were still held fast by the gang-member behind him.

"Well, well, well…!" the leader leered at Bob, as he picked up the iron bar from the floor and waved it menacingly in Bob’s face. "Look what we got here! If it ain’t Bob Temple, the big-shot football star! Big tough guy! Yeah, right…! Tough guy my ass! Not so tough now, are ya? Not so tough when you don’t got nobody blocking for ya! Are ya?" He tucked the bar under one arm and proceeded to search Bob’s pockets. He quickly found Bob’s cellphone and pulled it out, examining it with a grin.

"Whattaya gonna do with this, huh?" the leader sneered. "You weren’t gonna do anything stupid, were ya, like call the cops? Huh? Were ya?"

"What the hell are you scumbags doing here?" Bob challenged, when he regained his ability to draw a breath. "What the hell do you want?"

"Well, I’m not so sure…!" the leader said. "Since you were dumb enough to leave your front door open for us…maybe we’ll just…help ourselves to some of the fancy expensive goodies you got layin’ around here." He flipped the cellphone in the air a few times like a toy, before handing it to the largest gang-member, who now sat sprawled on the floor, rubbing his injured knees. "Or maybe… we’ll just let you buy us off with some money. Or maybe…we’ll take it out in something else… Know what I mean…?" With that, the leader whipped something out of his pocket. With a sharp metallic click, a fine, shiny blade flashed into view. Bob registered no emotion when he saw the switchblade. Instead, he looked right into the eyes of the leader and said.

"You useless, worthless piece of shit! Turn your ass around, take your girlfriends with you and get the hell out of my house!! Now!!"

The smirk on the leader’s face faltered only slightly. The largest gang-member spoke up: "Lemme…lemme have him, Alec," he said, as he struggled to get back on his feet again. "Give him to me; lemme kick his butt…" The elephantine gang-member placed one watermellon-sized fist into the other and cracked his knuckles loudly, with a resulting sound similar to that of a 21-gun salute.

"Not yet, Dim; not yet…" the leader said, holding out the iron bar as if to restrain the enormous gang-member. "There’s plenty of time for that later… First… Mr. Football Hero is gonna play some ball with us…! Right, Football hero? C’mon, Football Hero! Show us some o’ your football tricks! C’mon!" The leader began to poke and prod Bob with the end of the iron bar, taunting and goading him, and waved the switchblade threateningly in Bob’s face. Bob continued to stare steadily into the gang-leader’s eyes, his gaze never wavering.

"Well, Mr. Tough Football Hero?" Not sayin’ shit now, are ya? Huh, tough guy? Got nothin’ to say? Huh?" The leader sneered at Bob, waving the switchblade dangerously close to his face.

Bob looked up and stared hard into the eyes of the leader. Blood now ran trickled from his swollen lips from the blows he’d sustained. He closed his mouth, worked his tongue through all his teeth, as though to make sure all his teeth were still intact.

"Well?" The gang-member grinned, displayed a mouthful of stained, decayed teeth, with pungent breath to match.

Bob worked his tongue around in his mouth one last time and, without warning, suddenly hurled a hefty-sized, semisolid portion of blood-stained sputum directly into the left eye of the gang leader. "Gawdamn! Son of a—" The leader swore as he recoiled, raising one hand to his stricken eye, dropping the iron bar to clatter loudly to the ground.

"Go screw yourselves!" Bob shouted over the loud, profuse swearing of the now-partially-blinded gang-leader. "Or screw each other! If you don’t already, that is!"

The gang- leader reared back with his free hand and backhanded Bob across the face, following immediately after with a quick head-butt across the bridge of Bob’s nose. Stars exploded before Bob’s eyes, the room spun and then everything went black.

 

---

 

"Ohmigod, ohmigod, ohmigod!!" Stephanie whispered frantically to her companion, as the two watched the entire exchange, unseen, from halfway up the stairs. "What’re we gonna do? What’re we gonna do? They’re gonna kill him!!" She gripped Debbie’s hand so tightly that Debbie feared she’d break it.

"I don’t know, I don’t know…" Debbie said, trying to think. "Damn, they got the phone away from him! How’re we gonna call the cops now?"

"Maybe there’s another phone around here somewhere we can use!" Stephanie said. "There’s gotta be!"

"Yeah, but where?!?"

"Hell, I don’t know! Look around for it! Come on, come on! Start looking, already!" She tugged at her friend’s hand, trying to lead her further down the stairs. Reluctantly, her friend started to move, when they were both stopped short when the stomach-turning blow was delivered to Bob’s nose. "Ohmigod!!" Stephanie involuntarily squawked at the sight. Immediately, the heads of all three gang-members turned simultaneously, looking to the stairs.

"What was that?" the leader asked.

"I—I dunno," said the gang-member holding Bob’s arms.

"I sure as hell heard something!" The leader said.

"Want me to check it out?" asked the enormous gang-member.

"No, you stay here; Pete’ll go check it out. Pete! Hey! Wake up!" He kicked at the crumpled form of the fourth gang-member, who still lay unconscious on the floor. "C’mon, get up!" the leader snarled viciously.

"Wha-wha-wha--" mumbled the gang-member blearily, as he was kicked back into consciousness.

"Pete! Second floor!" the leader barked. "Check it out! Now! Move, goddammit, move!" The leader continued to prod the formerly-unconscious gang-member with the toe of his boot, as he rose unsteadily to his feet. "I thought we was alone here, dammit!"

The fourth gang-member staggered over to the stairs, still clutching the side of his head where he’d been clubbed with the iron bar, and made his way up the stairs, weaving unsteadily all the way. Unbeknownst to him, Stephanie and Debbie were standing right in his path, and had just stepped aside, out of his way, at the last second, before he bumped into them.

When he had safely passed by them and out of earshot, Debbie tugged at the hand of her equally-unseen companion and whispered into her ear (or at least, where she assumed the ear to be): "Listen, this is no good! We gotta do something!"

"I know, I know, but what?" Stephanie hissed, her whispered voice almost breaking in near-panic. Debbie was about to answer when her attention was distracted by a loud, sharp smacking sound. She and Stephanie looked down to see the gang-leader brutally smacking Bob across the face in an attempt, they assumed, to awaken him. After a time, Bob finally opened his eyes, at which point the leader resumed waving the switchblade around in Bob’s face.

"Ohhhhhhhmigawd, this is awful!" Stephanie half-whispered, half-moaned in despair. "They’re gonna kill him! They’re gonna kill him! And it’s all our fault!"

"Well then," Debbie said, in a tone that Stephanie immediately recognized as that of her ‘take-charge’ voice. "Since it is our fault he’s in this mess, then it’s up to us to get him out of it! Now listen: here’s what we’ll do. You go back upstairs and follow that creep that just passed us. I’ll stay down here and see if I can do something about these jerks. Now what you do is…"

 

---

 

The fourth gang-member staggered wildly, in an increasingly-zigzag pattern, as he made his way from room to room on the second floor. He clutched his throbbing head with one hand and struggled to keep his eyes open and focused. He felt terrible, as though he’d been hit by a freight train. Ohhhhhh… he groaned, silently. I feel awful! he thought. Ohhhhh…I think that bastard split my skull open…! Shit…I just knew it was a bad idea hitting this place…I just goddamn knew it…! I said let’s not stop, let’s just keep driving, but nooooooo! We hadda stop! Ohhhhhh, this’s not good, this’s not good! I gotta baaaaad feeling about this whole deal…!

Unbeknownst to him, a series of footprints appeared in the thick carpet behind him as he went along, following him as he went. The ghostly footprints followed closer…and closer…