The Black Hand

At twelve o’clock the radio clicked on by itself.

“A black hand has entered your city.”

At twelve-ten: “The black hand has entered your street.”

At twelve-twenty: “The black hand has entered your building.”

The girl pulled the blanket over her head.

At twelve-thirty the bedroom door creaked. A hand touched her shoulder.

“Found it,” said a tired voice. “You left your glove on the bus.”