The Death Collector

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Four days after his own funeral, Albert Wilkes came home for tea.

Even the dog knew there was something wrong. He was a mongrel called Pup, although it was many years since he had last been mistaken for a puppy. Stretched out in front of the fire in the living room, Pup raised his tired head. His ears were slicked back and his mouth curled away from yellowed teeth. Paws skittering on the wooden floor, the dog pushed itself backwards panting heavily. It never took its watery eyes off the figure in the doorway.

Even the ear-splitting shriek from Nora Wilkes when she turned to see what Pup was afraid of did not break the dog’s stare at its late master. Woman and dog mirrored each other, transfixed, backing away from the nightmare that walked into the room.

Albert Wilkes, oblivious to the reaction he had provoked, sat down at the small round table. Just as he had every evening for the last thirty years. He sat, silent and still, and waited for his widow to bring him his tea.

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