Okay, there. The threads have been combined, and there's a redirect from the lit spot forum that'll expire in one month. It's a few days over your deadline, but it's that or a week. :lol:

Thanks for accepting my entry! Here it is:


She screamed.
It was as much an instinctual, uncontrollable action as it was an intelligent one. It's something driven into our heads from the time we're little children - "if a stranger ever tries to take you, scream your head off!" So Janet Mueller screamed.
Janet Mueller's scream was audible inside the Robinson's home, but they had gone to Oregon for great-grandma Robinson's funeral.
Janet Mueller's scream could be heard inside the home of Georgia Levinson, but her thick earplugs blocked out anything that may have roused her from her sleep. It was just as well, perhaps; miss Levinson stood at a tiny five feet and one inch, with only 90 pounds to her frail frame. She could no more overpower Janet Mueller's problems than she could overpower a labrador retriever, and the bite-shaped scars on her arms suggested she wasn't good at that.
Janet Mueller's scream made its way into the home of the Hartmans. Mr. Hartman was away on business, Mrs. Hartman was knocked out on sleeping pills, and their daughter Naomi had yet to return home.
Janet Mueller's scream could also be heard from the back room of Larry Friedman's house. Mr. Friedman looked up, as if that would help him hear better. He heard the scream and the terror within it. He nestled into his chair, hoping it might protect him. But what would truly protect him was his steel-reinforced doors, multiple alarm systems, barred windows, and aggressive labrador retriever. As long as Mr. Friedman stayed inside, he knew he would be safe.
Janet Mueller's scream was only slightly audible in the bedroom of the recently married Cole and Marissa Lavigne. "What was that?" the babysitter asked. Mr. Lavigne ignored her question and unzipped her pants.
Janet Mueller's scream echoed from room to room in the unfurnished home of the late Horace Newman. The FOR SALE sign on the front lawn told all that needed to be told.
And so Janet Mueller was left to fend for herself. She ran frantically down the suburban street, stumbling and looking back over her shoulder like they do in horror movies. Her pursuer shrunk farther and farther into the distance, following at a slow, shuffling pace. Janet turned a sharp left into the McConnell's yard, stumbling through a bush on the way. Mr. McConnell heard the rustling from his place on the toilet and made note to get his shotgun once he was done. He was going to deal with the raccoon problem himself.
Janet Mueller pushed her way through more yards than she could count in the dark September night. Sometimes she'd cross a street, hop over a fence, or run through three consecutive yards. She hoped that with her speed advantage on her unusually slow pursuant, they may lose track of her. The Lavigne's small terrier barked at her as she ran through their backyard, causing the babysitter to peek through the bedroom curtains. Mr. Lavigne pulled her back, afraid that someone might see her.
Janet Mueller finally came to rest under the back porch of Gina Lewis and Pam Deering. Their cat, Elton, saw Janet through the window, but Gina and Pam did not. Janet tried to control her loud and heavy breathing, afraid it may give her hiding place away to her pursuer. But the truth was that she had been alone for three blocks, having quite sufficiently lost her pursuant, and possibly also his interest.
Janet Mueller leaned against the side of Miss Lewis and Miss Deering's house as her breath gradually slowed. The light of the full moon filtered between the boards on the deck, leaving stripes of blueish light on her jeans.

Janet Mueller screamed again.
This time, her screams were of pain. When that man attacked her, she grabbed, kicked, bit, punched, and clawed her way out of his grasp as he grabbed, kicked, bit, punched, and clawed her back into his grasp. The bite marks up and down her left arm oozed blood, but at the time it seemed minor. But now Janet was in the worst pain she had ever experienced. Her arm throbbed and stabbed, her mouth felt as if it were on fire, her legs twisted and contorted involuntarily, and it was as if every rib in her chest were broken. Janet Mueller writhed on the ground underneath the porch, screaming whenever her vocal chords didn't threaten to snap. Miss Lewis and Miss Deering didn't hear Janet over the thrash metal blaring in their bedroom - or they thought it was part of the song.
The neighbors thought it was part of the song.
A crawling, tingly sensation crept up the back of Janet Mueller's skull. Her right arm, the only one she could still move voluntarily, went to it and came back with a clump of hair attached to a patch of skin. Janet screamed and bled into the dirt. Soon enough, her left hand's ring finger fell off, as if mocking her unwed status.

Naomi Hartman walked down the Lavigne's front lawn. She wrapped her cardigan around her chest tightly, though it wasn't cold out.
When she heard the first footstep, she thought it was the wind.
When she heard the second footstep, she didn't hear it at all.
When she heard the third footstep, she thought it was an animal.
No one heard Janet Mueller, and they wouldn't hear Naomi Hartman either.