Creeeeeeeak.

The Orphan's finger reflexively squeezed the trigger, letting loose a deafening gunshot that found its mark somewhere in the wood above the staircase.

He heard a small scraping sound behind him, and with a frantic motion he rolled forward and to the side, aiming the revolver at the place he had just been sitting. There was no one there, but he caught a slight movement in the floorboards and so fired three shots into the floor. His tired fingers were still squeezing the trigger, but instead of gunshots he felt only the disappointing sensation of the hammer clicking into an empty cylinder.

He threw the revolver onto the floor and curled up in the darkest corner of the attic. He still had a small book in his left hand, and he squeezed tightly against his body. His eyes were shut also, and he found himself now paralyzed with fear. He knew he may have hit whoever was down there, but he wasn't about to check.

If he was going to die, now was the time.

He listened intently for any sound downstairs, and after about a minute he heard some rustling. Then footsteps. The sound of boot heel against wooden floorboard came closer and closer, then changed as it became boot heel against metal staircase.

Someone was coming for him.