It was the midnight hour at the Etheridge home.
Frank Etheridge rose from his bed as the grandfather clock in the hall tolled midnight. He threw on a robe, and left his room.
He walked down the hall. He stopped at his mother’s bedroom door. His hand found the knob. He turned it. The door eased open on well-oiled springs.
Frank walked into his mother’s bedroom. It was dark, with only the glow of a night light illuminating the room. The glow was sufficient, however, to reveal his mother’s bed, and his mother’s still form on the