Across the far side of the room, through the doorway and the corridor beyond, I gazed at the picture, the picture hanging so innocently on the wall. It was still there, the picture of Jesus, the holy picture that was the bane of my life. It was supposed to be a holy, so why did it take so much pleasure in tormenting me, so?
Why did it act so strangely, so threateningly whenever I was alone in the house? Then it happened again. A bright, blinding white flash shot out from the picture, sending me diving for cover beneath the blankets.