The woman looked out the window, the yellow nicotined curtains musty and stiff with age. The sun was setting, the shadows long and stretching their cold fingers towards her. She knew what the shadows wanted, knew their secrets.

Across the street, children played, laughing, not realizing the evil they had in their yard, it smiling inconspicuously from behind a molded ceramic face, painted with rosy red cheeks. She knew why their cheeks were red, blushed from the thrill of the kill. She knew that the morning dew made the tiny splatters of blood disappear from their red hat and blue shirt wiped clean by mother nature's shower.

She stared at the statue. his beady little eyes staring at her, threatening her silently, daring her to come outside, daring her to call for help from the oblivious children. She felt the acidic bile come up from in her throat as she turned from the window, the thread of sunlight disappearing­ as she rushed to the bathroom, her fear overtaking her body for the moment.

It was like this every day. She could go outside to pick up the newspaper and see movement in the corner of her eye. She knew they were rushing back to their spots before their owners knew they had been out playing, been out killing.

She knew they killed and she knew they enjoyed it. Her cat had been one of their victims. Naturally, she had thought her cat had just run off or had been taken in by another family. That was before she had watched in terror as the tiny bearded men had tortured the poor orange cat.

She had stood on her porch calling to him, pleading with her only friend to come home, to keep her company.

"Biscuits, Biscuits," she called out, her voice breaking as she did not see the orange blaze of fur anywhere. Usually, he came running at the first sound of her voice. The sun was setting low, the shadows still friendly to her, before fear paralyzed her life. She pulled the blue terry cloth robe around her body as she stepped down the stairs, following the broken sidewalk around the house.

That's when she heard the small meow, the cat seemingly pleading out in pain. She paused, taking a hesitant step forward, seeing the cat under the bush, covered by the branches.

"Come on baby. Come on out Biscuits," she said, her voice full of fear as she watched the cat moving around, trying to escape from the unseen captors. The cat hissed, pulling slightly out of the bushes, looking toward her, his eyes wide with fear. She could see the deep gouges marring the cat's orange fur, red streaks cutting across his eye and nose.

She stopped, staring at the cat as she saw the tiny hands grab it by the hind fur, pulling it back into the overgrowth. As she started to stumble backwards, she heard her cat meow loudly, followed by deep snickers.

At the corner of the house, she stopped, turning to look back at the spot where she had last seen her pet. A thin string of blood oozed out from under the shadows, slowly, creeping across the ground like a snail. She heard the laughing again, louder this time, as she ran into her house, shutting the door and sliding the useless hook into place, her heart racing, her mind asking her if she was awake or still trapped in an all too real nightmare.

She never saw her cat again. The next morning she had braved herself to go out to the spot she had seen him, wondering if she would find blood or fur. She kneeled down, peeking, scared to look but knowing she had to.

The ground was matted down, tiny puffs of the tabby's fur stuck to branches and leaves. It looked as if he had been dragged away out the other side of the bush, the slight blood trail diminishing the further it went. She looked around through tear brimmed eyes, the salty drops stuck on her lashes, refusing to fall.

That is when she saw the little man in the corner of her neighbor's yard, smiling blankly at her from his spot, holding the little shovel on his shoulder. She brushed the tears away quickly, staring at the shovel the gnome held, the orange fur a bright beacon to her, the familiarity of it screaming for recognition. The blank painted eyes stared at her, unblinking, waiting for her breakdown that was coming.

Biscuits had disappeared a little more than a month ago, the rain and weather washing away the macabre evidence on the shovel and gravel. It would not have been too scary if it had just been the one, the one with the shovel. She was certain she could handle the one but when his friends started showing up, with little pick axes, with little lanterns, their bright red and blue clothes, a fake cheerfulness­, she was certain that they were taking over.

When she woke up, glancing out the window, she saw every yard, perfectly manicured and green had a tiny ceramic soldier, some yards even had two or three. She could feel her heart jump, could feel her knees shaking as she turned, letting the curtain drop stiffly. She sat at her kitchen table, the papers and dirty coffee cups crowding her area, leaving only a small space for her to sit, resting her elbows on the sticky surface. She ran a shaky hand through her hair, the tangles pulling and snagging on her fingers.

Out of the corner of her eyes, she saw a movement, causing her to twist her head quickly, trying to see the cause of it. It seemed like the more she looked, the closer she came to seeing the blur but never enough to make it out enough. That is when she heard the soft giggle, like a deep voiced childish twitter.

She froze solid, the warmth running down her thighs slowly. She felt the tears in her throat gagging her. Closing her eyes, she tried to push the sounds away but she could feel them getting closer, could hear their tiny boots shuffling on the floor around her. Swallowing, she built herself up, trying to breathe evenly before she snapped her eyes open.

Nothing moved around her, the giggle gone, hiding behind doors and in the shadows. She stumbled to the door, checking the lock. The silver L was still in the circle, seemingly keeping them out. The sun was filtering in, not nearly as much as what she expected. Where had the day gone, she thought, looking around, the windows darker than she would have liked.

She could feel the shadows creep in, melting around her like sticky dark water, coming to drown her in its cold clutches. She moved to the door, flipping the lock, pulling it open quickly, trying to escape the evilness in her house.

What she saw stopped her in her tracks. The tiny statues, all sizes, all shapes stood in her yard, waiting, their plastic eyes staring, their smiles stiff. She swallows, moving back, her lumpy body bumping into a table.

With each blink, they move closer, as if in a strobe light. She stares, her eyes wide until she can feel the gentle breeze drying them out, making her blink. They inch closer still, waiting, their patience endless.

She looked to the yard, wondering where her neighbors were, where the children were that played outside. Was everyone gone, oblivious to this impossibility? She feels a scream bubbling, quivering in her mouth. She closes her eyes tight, feeling the army descend upon her quickly, feeling the warmth of the outside escape disappearing­, the sound of the doorknob clicking loudly, echoing forever in her brain.

She opens her eyes, staring at the crowd around her, their eyes staring blankly ahead, unmoving. She feels a slight calm come over her, watching as they don't move, waiting for something unknown, as if someone had pressed pause on a scary movie.

The first time she blinks, she feels the bite on her thigh, sudden and sharp like a bee stinging her. Her eyes pop open, looking down at her leg. A tiny pick axe is buried in her flesh, the blood spilling, staining the ratty robe that covers her. She holds her eyes, staring at the redness spreading quickly.

She doesn't even realize she blinked until the twin sting happens in her other leg, making her jerk and twist, a silent scream coming from her mouth. The gnomes stand there, as if they had been molded with their little tools in that position. She lays her head back, her eyes shining with unshed tears. Staring at the ceiling, her eyes waver, losing focus as she struggles to hold them open.

No sooner were they closed, when a heavy metal shovel comes down against her face hard. The red explosions flood her face, the bones in her nose cracking, sliding apart with a sick crunch. The scream gains sound as she screams, it erupting softly, becoming louder gradually.

She makes the mistake of squeezing her eyes shut, the pain of her busted nose too much to bear. The onslaught of the tools picks at her body, a shovel gouging into her stomach, a pick axe slicing into her arm.

She turns to the side, the vomit spilling from her mouth. She moves her mangled arm to her stomach, feeling the slippery life spurting from her. Her hand is on her face, holding her nose, the vomit sticking to her face. Her eyes open, the attack pausing, tools sticking out of her body like voodoo doll needles.

She starts crawling, the puddle of blood, a dark lake around her. She stares, her body jerking as she crawls toward the kitchen. The army is dragged with her, their tools stuck into her body. The others stand there, nudged aside as she moves away.

Her hand slips, falling out from under her quickly. Her body looses whatever gain it had as she slams face first into her own blood, the smear from her hand an angry streak on the light carpet.

She clenches her eyes shut, shaking her head weakly as they attack like a pack of hungry animals, pulling skin and flesh from her body in small rips. Her crying moans are put to an abrupt stop as the shovel is swung hard, hitting the back of her with a strength that does not match the small statues. As she looses consciousness, she hears the giggling start, feels the small hands pulling at her body.

As the sun rises and people start opening their doors, their newspapers waiting for them on their door steps, their warm coffee in mugs, no one notices the yard decorations standing there, their cheeks a little more red, their tools looking a little rusty. No one notices when the ambulance comes and takes the body of the old crazy woman away.