Reed was not the stereotypical mailman. He loved dogs, had two of his own.

“Hey there, buddy.” He knelt down. “Hey there.” He scratched the dog’s ears. “Anybody home? You want to sign for this package?”

When Reed’s hand hit the wetness in the animal’s fur he at first thought it was dog pee and he jerked back. When he looked down at his palm he saw the red, sticky substance that had been transferred from the collie.

Blood.

“You hurt, boy?”

He examined the dog. More blood, but no wound that he could see.

“What the hell?” Reed muttered.

He stood, one hand on the knob. “Hello? Anybody here? Hello?”

He looked behind him, unsure of what to do. He glanced down at the dog; it was staring up at him, its features now seemed melancholy. And something else was strange. The dog hadn’t barked once. His two mutts would raise the roof if someone came to his door.

“Shit,” Reed said under his breath. “Hello?” he said in a loud voice. “Everybody okay?” He edged inside the house. It was warm. His nose wrinkled at the unpleasant smell. If his head hadn’t been stuffed with allergies, the odor would have been far more unpleasant.

“Hello. Your dog has blood on him. Everything okay?”

He took a few more steps forward, cleared the small vestibule, and peered around the corner into the tiny living room set off the hall.

An instant later the wooden front door was thrown back, the knob punching a crater in the drywall. The glass door was kicked open so hard that it hit the metal banister on the left side of the porch, shattering the glass. Howard Reed jumped from the top step to the dirt. His heels dug in, he gave one shudder, sank to his knees, and threw up what little was in his stomach. Then he rose and stumbled to his truck, coughing, retching, and yelling in terror like a man suddenly deranged.