It was a simple request, late at night.
I had spoken to the bookmaker over the phone.
Asking to borrow her awl.
She was making tea, I think.
The awl was in the toolshed, she said.
Her front door was oddly open.
Her dog cowered under a chair.
Her phone was shattered on the floor.
Her pot of tea screamed, releasing steam.
A sliver of terror slithered through me.
Outside, the handle of the darkened toolshed was slick and sticky.
The awl attached her severed hand to the wooden door.
Reaching out toward me.
In a desperate plea.
For my help.