The rod struck his arm with a sickening crack. He grunted, the knife clattering to the floor.
She didn’t wait. She ran.
Bolting past him, she sprinted for the bedroom. The window—her only chance.
Behind her, heavy footsteps. Fast. Closer.
She reached the window, yanked it open—too slow. A hand clamped around her wrist, yanking her back. She crashed to the floor, pain jolting through her.
He loomed over her, breath ragged, knife reclaimed.
"I liked the way you trembled," he whispered again.
Then—sirens.
A flash of red and blue through the window.
The man stiffened.
Footsteps pounded up the porch. A voice boomed: “POLICE! OPEN UP!”
The man hesitated—just enough.
Summoning every ounce of strength, she grabbed the fallen lamp and smashed it against his head. He stumbled, cursing.
The front door burst open.
The neighbours had called for police after seeing a strange man with knife enter her house.
Gunshots.
The man collapsed.
Silence.
Shaking, she gasped for air as officers stormed in. Someone helped her up, asking if she was hurt.
She could only stare at the blood-streaked floor, the broken door, the lifeless body of her dog.
And on the bathroom wall, still dripping red, the last thing she’d ever fear:
“Humans can lick too.”
The end.
