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by • September 13, 2017 • Flash FictionComments (0)

The Prowler

He cursed the insomnia. Not because of the fatigue it caused, but because if he hadn’t been awake he might have never noticed the dog.

He didn’t know how long he lay listening to the night insects make their noises before restlessness forced his heavy, sleepless body from the bed. Driven to pace the rooms of his home, all muffled echoes and shadow, he was uncertain what he searched for, but knew he was unable to find it. Until he saw the glowing twin orbs through the tall french doors that faced out to the back deck.

The glowing was no reflection, but emanated from the eyes of the black beast, a dog that was somehow darker than the night around it, a silhouette of snaky hair and strong jaws. It didn’t snuffle or bark, but only sat at the door as if waiting for him to let it in. Its quiet presence radiated menace, but also the promise that if he opened the door all his troubles would end. He thought of his wife and children sleeping, then didn’t open the door.

Instead he sat and watched the dog, mesmerized and worried to let it out of his sight. They both stayed like that until the sun began to lighten the sky. Before that star’s light could touch it though, the dog turned and disappeared, off towards the distant hills, with only a silent promise that it would return tomorrow night.

See the author’s published work here.

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