By Hugh Cartwright
The door is swinging loose.
As I step from sunshine into heavy shadow, I’m already sure; my heart sinks.
Muddy prints track across tiled floor to the kitchen, with its butcher’s knives. They can mean only one thing.
I tiptoe forwards, past bloody streaks on the tiles. It’s just as I feared.
There are few places he could be hidden.
I swing round. He’s right behind me.
Is that blood around his mouth?
He rushes at me.
“Bad dog!” I shout. “Go to your box!”
I curse, grab the open refrigerator door, and wonder what can replace my evening steak.
Hugh’s not a real writer. Now retired, he has begun to write occasional stories, some colored with elements of sci-fi, others being just a little odd. It helps to take his mind off his impossible project: growing citrus trees in the Canadian climate.