by Akuorkor Allotey
3,916 Words | Original Illustration by Bratcave Studio
Competition: Killer Shorts Season 7 2026, Short Story (Prose) Category, 1st Place Winner
I am frequently told that I am a smart dog. I know I understand more than most.
I know my human’s name is Sir, because it is what the food delivery person calls him. “Here you go, Sir.”
I know I am a quick learner.
I know that I am not allowed on the beds, but sometimes if I whine loud enough while he’s watching the television, Sir will throw a pillow at me.
I know how to open the icebox.
I know that Sir locks the icebox. He is very protective of his food and does not like me getting in. I ripped through a box of steaks last time. I prefer my food warm, but that day my stomach had cramped so badly that I did not care. Sometimes he is absent-minded and forgets to feed me. This is why I go to his door every morning.
I know Sir gets lonely. The delivery person comes once a week— I can identify them by the scent of hot grease and cheese alone at this point— but leaves too quickly to be company.
I know that Sir does not have many friends. Perhaps they smell the stench of death on him. Maybe they sense his sickness.
I know I am his friend. He calls me Buddy.
My morning routine is simple.
Clasping my metal bowl firmly in my mouth, I make my way across the slippery stone of the kitchen floor. I do not run in the hallway. Though my claws are too blunt to scrabble against the wood, he does not like it when I leave marks.
Once I am at his door, I sit. Then, I whine, a high warble in the back of my throat that only increases in pitch with each passing moment until I hear his familiar groan. He shuffles to let me in.
Day by day, it seems my human’s sleep grows longer. I have watched his hair grow lighter and lighter as each winter passes, a testament to how age weathers his bones. “Hey, boy.” His voice is gruff as he pats my head. I press into his hand, grinning around the bowl in my mouth.
Sometimes I wonder if he would wake up at all if not for me.
***
My human does not leave every day. He leaves today.
The locks click on the door. Clunk. Clunk. Clunk. The top one always gets stuck. He has to yank it free, and the sound of scraping metal makes me wince. Clunk, clunk, clunk. In rapid succession, I am trapped again. The chain from the sliding lock dangles freely. He cannot lock that one from the outside.
Chill seeps through the window. I press my nose up against the glass. It tingles, pins and needles giving way to numbness. It’s a cold morning. The forest seems alive, despite this. The wind makes the trees bend, swaying to the strength of the howling gusts. The fallen leaves rustle and drag across the dirt pavement.
I watch from the safety of the inside as Sir enters the car. I never get in the car. I have not been in the car since he brought me to his home.
Sir had plucked me from the streets, where the world was loud and full of turmoil and danger. He had four others when I arrived.
I was unused to the life of a house pet. I hated the confinement of the crate and would cry for hours, begging for freedom. The metal collar sat heavy around my throat, daring to choke me. I fought with the others for food, snapping at any who got too close. The mere sight of a hand approaching my head made my hackles rise, a growl bursting from my throat.
Things were different now. For some reason or another, Sir had taken the others one by one, season by season, to the car. Small things built up. They’d been ill, or limping, or hadn’t barked quite right. One had gone wild and refused to listen to Sir’s commands, howling incessantly at all hours of the day.
Those who went to the car did not return. The scent of smoke and metal had clung to Sir’s hand for weeks, dirt crowded under his short fingernails.
Although the thought of the others brings a whimper to my throat, I am grateful to have the human to myself. Now that he is older, he cannot care for a large pack.
The house is boring without Sir.
I entertain myself by patrolling the house. I always start in the foyer. He keeps my leash by the front door, though he never takes me on walks anymore. It’s looped around a hook that drops rusted flakes. The leash is long, coarse, and impossible to chew through. I tried once.
The laundry room reeks of lemon and chemicals, and it makes my eyes water. Sir’s clothes hang off his hangers, marred by blotchy, faded stains.
I avoid the bathroom mirror for the same reason that I never look in my water bowl: I do not like to see the dog in there that mocks my every move, some false imitation of who I am. Its eyes are too dull, and its snout is too short.
I move past the darkness of Sir’s bedroom. He has made it very clear that outsiders are not welcome in his territory. I will not incur his wrath by intruding.
The metal on the windows glints in the sunlight. Sir is the only one allowed to leave. The rule matters more than the reason.
I watch a small black and orange beetle stumble over the carpet like it’s traversing the mountainous highlands. With great effort, it finishes its arduous journey, slipping into the crack beneath the door to the basement.
Sir keeps my cage in the basement. I outgrew it, he says, but he puts me there when I get too excited. I do not like the dark, so I try not to get too excited.
Sir still goes down there every night. Sometimes he takes down food or water. He usually returns with his sticky hands and sweat on his brow.
The pipes shriek, brief, shrill, and loud. It sounds like a woman, her voice high, her throat tearing with strain and terror. I have come to learn to ignore the sound. Sir will beat the pipes into silence when he gets home.
Tucked away in the corner of Sir’s living room is his bookshelf. He used to read to me when I was younger. He taught me a lot of words. Books aren’t of great interest to me, though, as I cannot understand them myself. Instead, I reach under the gap between the wood and the floor, straining to reach my ball. Sir always insists that all my paws stay on the ground— unless he has asked me to “Shake.” But he is not here, so he will not know— he does not see, does not watch.
My ball is a vibrant red, which is my favorite color. It is the same shade as my collar, and Sir says it looks good on me. The color of the ball makes it easy to find when it bounces off the walls too hard and rolls under the tables. Unfortunately, it is firmly wedged in the too-small space beneath the bookshelf, so I have to give up. I have to hope Sir will get it for me later.
I lounge on the couch and study the creased paper with grainy monochrome forms and worn edges that Sir always leaves on his table.
I have looked at it so many times that it is all but committed to memory. Smiling men all wearing the same mottled shades of gray. Some wear hats. Those who don’t have close-cropped hair. The background is indistinguishable— stocky buildings and metal. I know which one is Sir. He looks the same now, but older and calmer. In the picture, his face is less wrinkled and sallow. His back is straighter. A large dog sits by his side, tall ears perked, dark eyes alert, and short fur sleek.
Sir had always loved dogs.
What was he like back then? I wonder, lowering my chin to rest on the arm of the couch. When he had a pack and a place to belong? Before he found me?
Sir returns when the sun has just begun to dip under the horizon. The days are short in the winter. Though I eagerly prance to his side, his greeting to me is brief and muttered, as it always is when sharp notes of bitter spirits cling to him. It is not a nice smell, and I fight the urge to shy away. He does not get my ball. He grabs a long coat and dark gloves before he leaves again, taillights flashing like a wolf’s eyes before disappearing down the winding, forested road.
I watch him go, the hair on my neck prickling and my stomach turning. A low whimper slips from my throat.
I know nothing good ever happens in the dark.
***
I sleep while I wait for my human to return. The day is cold, but my bed is warm.
Most of the time, I do not dream.
When I do, it is a woman with golden hair like mine. She screams, her jaw wide and gaping to show the depths of her throat. Her voice is high and tremendous, warbling as she calls for me.
She never finds me.
In my nightmares, the taste of copper blooms in my mouth like a flower. My teeth are too blunt and too small, but I snap down anyway until I hear bone crunch Sir roars, relentless and pounding as crashing waves on the sand. Small bits of gravel bite my flesh, burrowing into my skin, worming their way into peeling, blistered sores that bleed sluggishly.
I close my eyes. My legs ache. My lower back throbs in time with my lolling tongue.
Sir’s hand is an anchor, and his praise a salve. I let them wash over me, let them cleanse the feeling of wrongness that makes me want to dig nails into skin and bones until I decipher the source of my malaise.
My own whine startles me awake. I clamp down on the noise until I am sure it cannot be misconstrued as excitement. There is no need. Sir cannot hear me from the foyer.
“You weren’t kidding. That’s a lot of locks,” a female voice says. She sounds breathless, and I can almost hear the racing of her heart as my human locks the door.
“I know,” Sir says.
“You living here alone?” she asks.
I hear the smile in his voice. “Got a dog.”
Then, there’s a wet smack as their lips collide again.
I track their stumbling footsteps to the couch. With a grumbling sigh, I rise from my bed. Stretching the sleep from my limbs, I pad to the living room to greet them. New humans rarely come here.
The woman is brown-haired. It falls to her shoulders in ringlets. She’s much younger than Sir. Taller than him, too. I can see her head just over his shoulder, her painted nails curled over his back. The scent of her perfume is so strong that I can catch its scent from across the room. It smells like rotten fruit, too sweet and cloying.
I sneeze.
She opens her eyes.
Our gazes meet.
She screams.
I freeze in my tracks, fear clutching my chest. Her ear-piercing shriek makes my ears ring.
This is a common reaction. I think that Sir chooses women who fear dogs.
I do my best to calm her. I hunker low to the ground, limbs crouched awkwardly beneath me. She doesn’t stop screaming, even when I press my belly to the cool ground and curl my lips in a submissive grin.
Crack. Sir slams an iron stick into her skull. She collapses, legs crumpling like a newborn fawn’s. Her head lolls on the ground, eyes flitting aimlessly as a reedy groan escapes her red-stained lips. Keeping low, I take one step toward her. I should know better.
“Stay!” Sir barks.
He bends over her, mouth drawn in a snarl that reveals stained teeth. My human is not a traditional hunter. He enjoys prey of his own species. I lay quietly, watching as he huffs and struggles, dragging her to his den.
At times like these, I am glad Sir is selfish. I want no part of this hunt.
Even from my bed, I can hear the commotion coming from Sir’s room. Something slams into the wall. There’s a high-pitched scream, words indecipherable. His door opens, and within the same breath, a body thumps against the wall. She must have tried to escape, ripping the door wide to try to slip through. Nobody ever leaves. Another slamming door, this one more muffled. I cover my ears as the noise crescendos, the shouts more panicked and desperate.
“You fucking bitch!” Sir roars, his voice tight with pain and rage.
Then, silence.
Sir’s shuffling footsteps are heavy. He walks like a man twice his age. Something falls. Sir does not pick it up.
I slowly rise to my feet, slinking from the kitchen to the hallway. Light from his room spills out onto the hardwood. A low groan splits the air. Through the crack, I see what’s happened.
A knife, sticky with blood in his hand, Sir lies on his side. His sides heave like that of a woman in labor. Sweat gathers on his brow, and his disheveled, thinning hair sticks to his forehead. He is pale. His eyes catch mine.
“Come here,” he barks.
I do not move. I am not allowed in his room. It is against the rules.
His wrinkled face is lined with agony. His arm claws the air, reaching for me before falling limply to his side. He snarls.
“Come here or I’ll skin you alive you stupid—”
I cower back, but he never reaches me. His palms are bloody. Red pools underneath him. It is not my favorite color when it looks like that.
“Get help,” Sir’s hands are pressed to his belly. “Call for help, please,” he croaks— begs.
Blood spills from between his fingers. A breath rattles in his ribs and slips from his mouth in a whisper.
Sir grows still. Too still.
It is only then that I dare to venture closer, to break the laws that my late human had written in stone and sit by his side. No amount of nudging brings life back to his dull eyes. I can hear something drip in the bathroom, a repetitive plink onto tile.
I do not think it is water. The woman is in there.
I stay until night turns to day.
When I wake up, my head feels tight, my chest hurts, and my tongue is dry. A low growl emanates from my empty belly, seeming to echo in the silence. I push down the pang of pain that comes with it.
Grief is an odd feeling. Grief is stumbling with the lights off, climbing into bed, turning with a smile— and finding that you are now alone.
Guilt is even stranger.
I could not save him because I was paralyzed. Now, I cannot leave his side.
The pipes begin to scream again. Sir is not there to silence them. I cannot recall if he took water to the basement before all this. He may have, because the noise continues for an hour before finally fading.
I do not dream that night, yet I wake up with an unmistakable tremor in my limbs. I sway as I haul myself to my feet. I know I have to end my vigil today and break my fast.
I go to retrieve my bowl. It is empty. I am halfway to Sir’s room before I remember. The metal smacks into the kitchen tiles with a dull ping. I fill myself up on water, which lessens the ache for only a moment. My stomach cramps so hard that I have to lie down, and it takes me minutes to muster the strength to get up again.
Head throbbing to some silent tune, I look around at the wood cabinets, the small pantry, and the silver fridge. And on them all, I see the same clunky padlock, now locked forever.
I am going to starve.
I return to Sir’s room. I avoid his body, opting to curl up beside his bed. His pillow is on the ground. It still smells like him— cedar and leather. It doesn’t make my misery go away. I close my eyes and try not to think about food. It is impossible when I can taste stale blood in the air, the shadow of a slaughter.
I was his favorite, wasn’t I? Why else did he keep me when he laid the others in the dirt?
And for all his faults, Sir wouldn’t want me dead.
The black and orange bugs have formed a crowd around him, enticed by a fresh source of food. They skitter in different directions as I draw close.
The corpse smells like a foul mixture of rotting fish with the sweet curl of an infected wound. I sink my teeth into the flesh of his arm. It is still slightly stiff. The meat is chewy and tangy and tastes as it smells.
The chunk has only just gone down before my throat is spasming, saliva pooling in my mouth as my body rejects the offering.
Yet, I know that there is no other option.
***
The patter of rain smacks the window. I am exhausted, full, sated, and disgusting.
With my hunger quelled, sleep threatens to drag me into its clutches. I do not know when the room stopped smelling like blood and started smelling like me. Or maybe, my scent is now one of blood.
I raise my head before I am fully aware of what garnered my attention: a familiar knock pattern— one long and four short in some lilting tune. A pause. Two more dull thuds.
I sit straight up. I know who it is even without having to take a sniff.
“Mr. Greer? Sir? Got your, uh, pizza here!”
More knocking.
“On the house, sir, right from the boss.”
My mind starts to race. Why were they here? They should not be on the territory without permission. Sir could not have requested food.
I edge toward the couch, hauling myself up to peek past the corner of the drawn curtains. In the dark, they are nothing but a short silhouette, face lit by the light of their screen. They bite their lip.
“Fuck,” they mutter loudly. “Mr. Greer, you okay in there?”
Their fist hits the wood a few more times, increasingly half-hearted. They glance back at the trees, then step off the porch and return to their car. I watch from the window, barely daring to pull the curtains wider to view things more clearly. An eternity passes before I hear the crunch of gravel and dirt, the headlights of another car flashing red and blue lights as it comes down the road to Sir’s home.
Two humans, both male and clad in dark clothes, speak to the delivery person as they all walk to the porch.
“You’re the one who called?” asks one of them. His dark hair is short, and it makes me think of Sir’s photographs.
“Yeah. The old man who lives here orders the same thing every Friday, a large meat lover’s for delivery, and yesterday he didn’t put in a call or anything, so my boss, she asked me to bring it regardless and check on him, ‘cause he’s, well, old.” Somehow, the words tumble out in one large breath. “I knocked a few times, but he didn’t answer, even though his SUV is in the driveway.”
“Got it. So just a standard welfare check, then. Do you know the homeowner’s name?”
“His name is Jacob Greer, but never call him Jacob, or nothing, or he gets real pissed.”
The dark-haired man knocks loudly, loudly enough that it seems the whole frame of the door is rattling. “Poolsbury Police Department!”
My heart pounds in my chest. I am cold all over, like I have been sprayed with the hose. My legs are shaking. For all I patrol, I am not a guard dog. I stumble backwards off the couch, smacking into the table. It falls, a clap of thunder in my already ringing ears. From the basement, the pipes start up, and this time I know that they are not pipes, as I have tried to delude myself for so long.
Closing my eyes does not change the fact that I hear the creak of the hinges as a foot slams into them over and over. Wood splinters like bone. I drag myself to the kitchen, burrowing myself in the comfort of my small bed.
There are the footsteps of intruders. They touch things I was never allowed to touch, making a beeline down the hall. They call Sir’s name. The door to Sir’s room opens, and the smell of what I have done wafts through the house. There’s a hissed curse. Someone retches. It makes my own stomach roil violently. I take small, quiet breaths. Everything smells like rot and blood.
“Dispatch, we got a deceased white male, mid 50s. Name is Jacob Greer…”
Something crackles and beeps.
“Those bites…thought I heard a scream, might’ve been a howl?”
Their voices overlap, filling the house like smoke. Soon it will overwhelm me. Sir’s door clicks shut. I hear the creak of wood as someone descends into the basement. The other set of boots are heavy on tile. Everything is distant, muffled, like I am drowning in a pool.
Sir called me lucky. He said he had saved me. Without him, I would have been on the streets forever, fighting for a scrap. Fighting something bigger and meaner than he was to survive.
“Holy…”
A gasp slices cleanly through my dull panic. It is loud. Too loud, too close. I risk a glance up. It’s a mistake. The man with short, dark hair stands in the arched doorway, eyes wide as moons as he takes in my form. His hand is tense at his hip. “Don’t move!” he shouts.
I think of the way that Sir used to pet me, his eyes soft with contentment. I remember the arc of his hand through the air, his teeth bared in fury.
“What the hell?!”
I curl tighter into myself as boots thud closer to me. I hope this is a dream.
I know it is not.
“Need backup a-and EMS urgently,” he stammers, staring at me. “I- I have a…white male, teens— Christ, that’s a fucking collar—”
He sounds angry, upset. Afraid. The word monster breaks through my haze. I do not know if they mean Sir or me.
I know I broke the rules. I did not come when he called. I ate when I was not told to eat. I left his side when I should have stayed.
A voice calls me by a name I have not heard for a long time: Cody Forrester.
It does not feel like mine.
I know my human was a bad man.
I do not move.
And I know I was a bad dog.
About the Author
Akuorkor’s Substack | LinkedIn
Akuorkor Allotey is a Ghanaian-American writer. She graduated from Duke University’s psychology program (with a minor in English), and will be starting her MA in Psychology at Columbia University in Fall 2026. Akuorkor enjoys writing psychological horror and thrillers. She was a Top Ten Finalist in Killer Shorts Season 6 with her short work, “Quis ut Deus.”
