"Beware of Dog"

A Southern Gothic nightmare.

         1933. Gertie sat rocking in her chair and fanning herself in the dimly lit kitchen of her filthy, weathered house, the low hum of the radio filling the air. It was a humid day, everything blurred at the horizon. The announcer's raspy voice crackled through the static, detailing the latest reports from the city--a half a dozen people, gone without a trace. The descriptions were vague: all last seen walking home, vanished in broad daylight, their doors left ajar, their meals half-eaten. The news painted a picture of creeping dread, but Gertie smiled broadly. She felt something comforting about these reports, like an old tune to which one couldn't help but hum along.


         She took a light sip from her cup of black coffee, her strong, calloused hands steady as she stared into the hard wooden hall. Her eyes focused on the corner, where her two beloved pets were also relaxing: Cat, who lay lazily by the door, her eyes blinking slowly, and Dog, who sat on the floor by the table, chewing the last bit of innards from an old victim, squelching in his teeth.


         She sighed with contentment. It'd been another successful hunt. She set her cup down gently and rose, her heavy boots stomping along to where the newest "guest"--still warm and breathing shallowly, now--lay on the butcher's block.


         The knife glinted under the low light as Gertie picked it up. She worked with practiced efficiency, cutting away clothing, binding limbs, preparing. The kitchen was quiet, save for the sound of movement--ropes tightening, breath hitching, the small sounds of life clinging to fear. Cat purred softly from the corner, while Dog remained sat still, head cocked, his eyes never leaving Gertie's hands.


         The sound of footsteps outside startled her. A sharp knock echoed through the house, followed by a voice--a man's voice--calling out.


         "Ma'am, we're looking for someone. Have you seen anything unusual tonight?"


         Gertie froze, a strange smile creeping across her face. She stood slowly, wiping her hands on her apron, and moved to the door. Her boots thudded against the wooden floor with deliberate slowness. She opened the door to find a lone policeman standing at the threshold, his uniform dark and crisp under the porch light, adjusting his hat.


         "Is something wrong, officer?" she asked, her voice calm but edged with something darker.


         "We've had reports of disturbances in the area. Strange noises. Missing folks," the officer said, his eyes scanning the house warily. He had heard rumors, whispers in town, but nothing he could act on--until now.


         Gertie didn't answer. Instead, her hand slid beneath her apron, gripping the handle of the butcher knife that had never strayed far from her side. With swift, practiced motion, she drove it into the officer's chest before he could react. His breath caught in a strangled gasp, and he collapsed soundlessly onto the porch.


         But no sooner had the officer's body hit the ground than two more officers appeared in the doorway, guns raised.


         "Drop the knife!" one of them shouted.


         Gertie didn't hesitate. She lunged, knife raised, but the officers were quicker. Their shots rang out, and Gertie fell to the floor, the weight of the knife still heavy in her hand.


         As the officers stood over her, panting and stunned, they glanced around the room. The scent of old rot lingered in the air, and they couldn't help but notice the strange, unsettling scene in the corner.


         Dog was there, sitting quietly, his eyes filled with something primal. The officers exchanged glances, uneasy.


         One muttered, "Poor boy...raised to think he was a dog..."


         Cat came out, black and furry, leaving behind bloody pawprints. He cozied up to the officer.


         The other officer nodded grimly, his gaze lingering on the figure crouching in the corner before turning his attention back to the bizarre and silent house.