War in the Hollow: Dec. 6, ‘36


The hound saved me a great deal of pain.

I’d worked my way through three houses, killing the residents of each, before I came to the last home on the road.

As I rounded the back corner of the house, there was a woman standing just outside her back door, a shotgun in hand and a large, tan hound standing beside her. I doubt she was planning on shooting me, but it didn’t stop her from bringing the rifle up or from my hands dropping to the Colts.

Still, she was a damned sight quicker, and all she had to do was get the gun to her waist and pull the trigger.

The dog, for reasons unknown but much appreciated, leapt up and struck his mistress, sending her shot wide.

She screamed in outrage as she brought the gun back to bear on me, but it was too late.

The woman went sprawling backward as the heavy slugs from the Colts caught her in the chest. The shotgun clattered to the stone patio, and the woman pitched onto her side.

A low growl issued from the hound’s throat, his hackles raised and hate rolling off him.

The woman gasped, reached for her shotgun, and the dog lunged forward, snapping at her hand and biting off her ring and pinky fingers.

Her scream of outrage was lost as a bloody froth escaped her lips and stained her cheeks.

Her movements stopped, and only I and the dog remained.

He turned to look at me, his tail wagged, and then he sat patiently by the door.

“Hungry?” I asked.

The dog let out an excited bark. Chuckling, I opened the door, and we went in.

It was time for my new friend and me to eat.

#horror #fear #art

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Nicholas Efstathiou

Husband, father, and writer.

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