Through the Peephole

by Ross Butterly

I couldn't avoid answering the door forever. Swallowing as if to drive down my apprehension, I turned the handle and pulled the door open. The officer almost collapsed across the threshold, staggering unsteadily into my home.

"Thank God you're in," he panted, sounding as though even that short utterance had sent waves of pain through his body. He clutched weakly at a gaping wound in his side, trying to hold shut a collection of vicious cuts and tears in his flesh. I stifled a wretch at the sight as his hand slid away, and hurriedly led him across the room, lowering him onto my sofa with great care.

"What the hell happened to you?" I shot back. I hadn't heard such urgency in my own voice in a long time.

"I have no idea," he groaned. His blood had already begin to seep into the upholstery, but that was the least of my concerns at the moment. I doubled back across the room, shutting the front door. "I was chasing a youth brandishing a knife into the old mill across the way," he continued, "and some... thing attacked me."

I dreaded to imagine what kind of weapon - or what kind of person - could inflict such a wound.