Who Killed Christian Fiction?
It was a dark and stormy night. The wind howled against the panes of my second-floor office, the light from the lone bulb flickering with the whistles outside. At my desk, I pounded out case files from busier days keys slapping the paper like the rain against the windows. I had not been at it long when a flash of lightning and a knock on the door broke my concentration. Then all went dark. I stumbled to the cabinet and fumbled through the drawers. The candles found them and a light. Its orange glow guided me to the knob. I opened the door. Nobody. But I was sure there had been a rap upon the door and not thunder. I lifted the candle into a hollow hallway, hearing no steps there or from the stairwell at its end. Nothing. I thought, “The electricity probably won’t return for a while might as well set up the cot for the night.” I pulled the door shut again but stopped at the sound of a shuffle on the floor. Bending, I found a slip of paper orange from my candle and unfolded. “Someone must
