P ETER O’LEARY ENDURED the midday drizzle among
the many protesters who had circled the downtown
block of Government Square. The dissidents, much to
his dismay, had grown apathetic. Peter wasn’t much of
a radical either, although his pen proved to be quite
the weapon. As a reporter, he was loved and hated —
there was no in-between. He’d splashed onto the scene
with a rather biting article which, for the first time
ever, revealed the salaries of every elected official and
high court judge, along with a laundry list of
government spending cover-ups. In an economy on the
brink of depression, members of congress and other
officials soothed their woes in million-dollar garden
parties while making themselves rich by betting
against a fiscal recovery.
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The story also showed a dismal and lackadaisical
work ethic on the part of those serving the public and
an unyielding appetite for luxury, despite the misery of
the people they swore to represent. The people were
outraged and college campuses became Petri dishes of
dissent. Martial law wasn’t far away, according to the
various rumor mills.
Strictly speaking, Peter was not responsible for the
escalating citizen revolt, but his articles were indirectly
responsible for sparking the fuse. He had spoken out,
once more through his pen, about the violence taken
against government higher-ups and had condemned
the once peaceful protests as a disgrace to liberty.
Even still, he stood among them in the rain as a show
of solidarity for the cause.
The government had, as it turned out, been
skimming the bar of all its alcohol and left the owner to
foot the bill. The dissenters were lobbying to replace
every single member of congress who’d taken part in
the unfair practices — which meant replacing every
member. The government’s answer was to simply wait
them out. It had worked before and they figured it
would work again.
As the protestors sang songs about inequality, Peter
was drawn to someone across the intersection,
standing perfectly still amidst the group of sign-wavers
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on that corner. The man in question was tall, and wore
a long coat draped over a dark hoodie. Peter couldn’t
make out the man’s features, but he was sure that this
person was staring directly at him. There was
something about this haunting figure that didn’t seem
quite right but Peter couldn’t put his finger on it. He
felt an unusual sense of fright when his eyes engaged
the man in the long coat. Peter found his mouth
becoming parched as a chill racked up his spine. He
stepped back through the crowd and moved toward a
side street, hurrying his steps and mentally shouting
at himself to get as far away from that person as
possible.
Peter flagged town the first taxi he saw and told the
driver to get him to Brandywine Street as quickly as
possible. The large crowd made it difficult, but Peter
managed to flee Government Square without being
followed. He had moved pretty swiftly and was certain
he’d not been tracked.
Twenty minutes later, he tipped the driver and
looked both ways before cautiously making his way
toward the front door. But he stopped before entering.
His eyes moved to the top-right of the doorframe,
where he saw a six-inch line of black paint on the
wooden trim, drawn diagonally.
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That wasn’t there before, he told himself. He was
sure of it. Entering the house, he found himself alone,
which was unusual. Although he had neither a mate
nor children, the barking enthusiasm of his miniature
collie always met him within moments of the door’s
closing. He searched the formal dining room — no sign
of the pooch. The family room — nothing. Peter then
ducked into the kitchen and found his canine friend in
the corner, disturbed and shivering. It looked as
though the dog had been trying to hide himself but
couldn’t find cover and just gave up.
“Hey boy, what’s wrong?” Peter asked, worried.
He drew close to the dog, which was nearly having a
panic attack. The dog jumped back as Peter extended
his hand to give him a gentle pat. The dog looked
stricken.
“Did you get into the garbage again, boy? You know
you shouldn’t be eating that junk just because I do,
right?”
A loud bang resonated from the bedroom. Peter
jumped, grabbing his chest. He tried to snatch up his
dog before rushing out of the house but the dog barked
sharply and darted from his grip, opting to run into the
front room. Peter stood still, glued to the floor,
listening. He couldn’t identify the noise but he knew
that someone was in the house, someone uninvited.
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Peter reached into the drawer for a carving knife and,
gripping it with a tight, sweaty fist, lurched toward the
hallway leading into the bedroom. He tried to make his
footsteps light and immediately regretted coming into
the house so noisily. “It’s always better to catch an
intruder by surprise,” he thought.
But now he knew with certainty that whoever was in
his bedroom was aware that he was home and had
time to prepare an attack.
Halfway down the hallway, Peter could see that the
bedroom door was cracked open a little bit but he had
no view inside the room. His heart raced with urgency
and he was either going to rush into the bedroom with
ferocious aggression and overwhelm his foe or turn and
bolt from the house in a desperate sprint — there was
no other option. It was truly fight or flight.
Peter did neither; he froze.
He didn’t know in which direction to go so he stood
in the middle of the hallway, listening. He took a gentle
step forward, the wood creaking under his shoe, and
felt acid rushing into his throat, throbbing up from his
pounding heart. He narrowed his gaze and strained his
eyes, trying to see into the dark bedroom.
Peter then noticed that he couldn’t hear his dog from
the front room, the dog that’d run from his arms
barking and crying. “Why was he so quiet?” Peter
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wondered. Everything was so still and he didn’t hear so
much as a whimper. He swallowed back a lump of
saliva and instantly knew why the dog was quiet; he
was hiding again. And whatever had spooked the dog
was not in front of Peter, but more than likely behind
him.
He turned quickly and saw an imposing shadow on
the kitchen wall and recognized the intruder from the
rally. Peter’s dread gave way to despair as he mentally
prepared himself for an expedited departure.
Oh, but no!
Peter’s mind revolted. He would face down his
enemy, not cower in fear like this, waiting to die. A
surge of anger rose up in his chest and he prepared his
body for a violent encounter. He was not a fighter, but
in this moment he would have to be. It’s the only thing
that would preserve his life. No longer would his pen
do the talking; he now needed brawn — and a sharp
knife.
Peter dried the knife-wielding palm on his shirt,
tightened his grip, took a quick breath, and rushed
toward the tall figure in the long dark coat standing
menacingly in his kitchen. Peter felt only a sickening
thud and smelled bitter incense before getting a close-
up look at a misshapen face with pale eyes. The light
faded quickly as darkness swallowed him.
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