Falls the shadow
The beleaguered Ernest Sikes, enticed by a huckster to the promise of power, discovers that it is everything he had hoped it would be. But what lies beneath the surface of our good intentions?
The beleaguered Ernest Sikes, enticed by a huckster to the promise of power, discovers that it is everything he had hoped it would be. But what lies beneath the surface of our good intentions?
The tags are what they say on the tin. It's a dark story about power corrupting, and feral wolves, and also forcing yourself on domestic dogs. You know how it goes. Happy Halloween, guys.
Released under the Creative Commons BY-NC-SA license. Share, modify, and redistribute -- as long as it's attributed and noncommercial, anything goes.
"Falls the shadow," by Rob Baird
"Just letting you know ahead of time, we're probably going to need you to come in this weekend." Philip's voice dripped into the room, as it always did, like something noxious. "Client needs this stuff Monday. You know how it is." He gave a too-friendly smile and shrugged -- the kind of shrug that said_it's okay, Ernest, we're in this together_.
Philip and Ernest were not in anything together, except in the vague sense of office hierarchy. Ernest didn't respond, and, waving lightly to Sherri Schreiber, his officemate, Philip left.
"Why do you let him walk all over you?" Sherri asked, when the man had gone.
"What am I supposed to do?" Ernest Sikes was aware that his voice sounded ever so slightly whiney; he stared fixedly at his computer screen and tried to concentrate on his work. "Not like it matters, anyway. He's my boss."
"Well, there's a difference between_having_ a boss and being bossed around," Sherri said primly. "I'm just saying that if you keep letting him act like an alpha male, he's going to keep behaving like one."
"At least he told me Wednesday this time," Ernest sighed, and returned to the presentation. "What's a shorter way of saying 'best in class'? They're calling this the 'best-in-class tax-preparation solution.'"
"'Leading,'" Sherri offered. "Not that you'd know anything about that."
Ernest didn't rise to the bait. "'The 2013 version of our leading tax-preparation solution'? Maybe. What are you doing for lunch, anyway? I want to get out of here."
"Meeting a friend. Sorry; you're on your own."
Well, that's nothing new. When Sherri left, he waited around, trying to decide whether or not he felt like reheating the sandwich he'd purchased the day before and stored in the break room refrigerator. It was that or venture out, and while he dimly thought that it might do him some good to leave the office, he was behind on his work as it was.
As it happened, the question proved to be irrelevant, for he opened the refrigerator to discover the sandwich missing.Five fucking dollars worth of good pastrami. Ernest slammed the door harder than was strictly necessary, gathered his coat, and stepped out into the crisp afternoon air.
Spring had yet to hit the city; he buttoned up his pea coat and stalked deliberately up 8th Street, leaning into the wind. A panhandler reached out a grimy paper cup and Ernest jerked away.Who in God's name, Ernest swore to himself, actually likes this fucking place?
The farmer's market at Civic Center, though, was bustling. He bought a pair of tamales, tucking the wrapped bundle into his inner jacket to keep it from getting cold, and was stepping back towards Market Street when a voice caught his attention. "Hey, sir! How do you fancy changing your_entire_ mindset?"
"Excuse me?"
The voice came from a short, stout man leaning on a cart. The cart was full of identical bottles, unmarked except for a small black label that said_Proteus_ and, underneath it, what will you be in a fake typewritten font -- Courier New, Ernest believed; it lacked the formal punch of Courier or the class of Prestige. "Fancy a change in attitude?"
"Doesn't everyone?" Ernest shook his head and started walking again.
"Sure, but some need it more than most. Look at you," the barker called after him. "Don't you want to be able to tell your boss what a miserable son of a bitch he is? Making you work late; calling you in on the weekends? Bein' too friendly with the women in the --"
He stopped, and turned around carefully. "What do you know about my boss?"
"Lucky guess." The man grinned, showing off a mouthful of broken, yellow teeth. "In this city, in this economy? Who doesn't have a problem with the management, right? Come on. Have a drink."
"What is this?"
"This is an elixir of my own devising! I find that it has a nearly magical ability to clarify what would otherwise be invisible to us. If you set yourself in a frame of mind, it will allow you to_become_ that person! More assertive! More empathetic! More --"
"How?"
"Well, the recipe is secret. But I assure you it works. Even the taste is conditioned by your frame of mind -- think of it as delicious, and it will be the ambrosia of the gods. Mind over matter, that's what I always say! Mind over matter."
"You mean it's a placebo?"
The man licked his lips, and shrugged. "Well, who's to say? It's made from secret Amazonian berries -- I only have a limited supply. Of course, I only have a limited supply of customers, too..." he mused.
"You're a fly-by-night cart at a farmer's market."
"I have a fly-by-night store on 18th Street, too," the man grinned. "Come on. Only two dollars for a bottle. But you know what? Lookin' at you, you really could use a pick-me-up, I think. I'll throw in another one for free."
Ernest rolled his eyes, handed the man two dollars, and -- taking two bottles of the pale orange liquid -- slunk back to the office. He ate lunch in silence, and when the tamales were finished he unscrewed the cap of one of the drinks. It had a sickly sweet smell, and it tasted like something that had fermented too long; he made a face and sealed the bottle again.
Before he left for the evening Philip assigned him another presentation to finish; as a consequence it was nearly nine o'clock before Ernest returned home, trudging up the stairs to a second-floor walkup with a broken doorbell that the landlord had ceased to even offer lip service to fixing.
In the window of the microwave oven Ernest looked harried. Slightly balding and pudgy, the lines on his face added twenty years to his three decades. "Change of attitude," he snorted. He took the bottle of the snake oil salesman's "elixir" and unscrewed it again. Before he could pour it down the sink, a change of heart seized him, and with a sigh he took another careful sip.
At the end of a long day, it wasn't, actually, half bad. It was too sweet, certainly, but there was a pleasant tang to the aftertaste. Right. Well, the salesman had said it all depended on one's frame of mind. The salesman! Ernest snorted again, angrily -- first at the huckster, then at himself. What had he done? Sherri was right; all he ever did was let people walk over him.
He didn't_want_ to. He'd left school with big plans -- and stumbled straight into an unforgiving city that could care less about them. Ernest had told himself at the time that the design job at CTM Cygnus was temporary -- only until he could move to a real agency. It had been six years. Six years, a pay raise and a half, and neither progress nor respect. "'Keep letting him act like an alpha male,'" he mocked Sherri's words bitterly. "Well you know what. I'd love to be one." But what the hell was he going to do? Ernest finished the drink, squeezing the bottle in irritation and tossing it at the recycling bin. He was still angry when he crawled into bed.
He awoke again in darkness. He was staring at the wall; the fruity smell of the elixir was thick in his nose. Had he not closed the lid of the bin? He sighed, tried to get up, and rolled off the bed, landing awkwardly on his stomach and pulling the sheet down with him.
Something was wrong -- badly wrong. His arms weren't working. They were trapped beneath him, and when he tried to move them to the side he found that he could not. Everything was out of place; his nose felt too long and his legs seemed unwieldy. Panicking, he called for help; the sound came out strangled and wrong. He realized that he could see something moving with his vocalizations -- a black stain in front of him that moved when he turned his head. It looked remarkably like the tip of a dog's nose; only the reassuring knowledge that this was impossible kept him from screaming in terror.
Carefully, he turned his head to the side; the nose followed, and now he could see the dull grey mass of fur before it. He stuck out his tongue gingerly; found that he could see that, too. When he touched his tongue to the smooth black thing, he could feel the wetness.No... no, this can't be right. And then: well. Of course it can. I'm dreaming. That thought was so obvious that he laughed -- or tried to; it was a growling bark. Wake up now. But the nose remained. Wake. Up.
The panic was starting to return; Ernest struggled in the sheet, and as he thrashed he discovered that it was possible to get his feet beneath him and stand up. He tried to reach out with his arms, to brace himself, and fell down again -- for he had no arms, only an animal's forelegs, and he was off balance. For a dream, it was deeply unsettling and perversely vivid.
One slow step at a time he extricated himself from the tangle of fabric and walked back out to the kitchen. He was seeing everything from a full meter shorter than usual; the effect was disconcerting and made orienting himself awkward. So, too, was the overpowering rush of scents and sounds. Beneath the smell of the drink bottle, the kitchen stank of chemical cleansers and mildew, even though he'd never seen anything to suggest its presence.
He couldn't see terribly well, but with an effort he was able to find his jacket. He kept his cell phone in the right pocket. His paws didn't work well enough to retrieve the device, but with some effort he was able to stick his snout in far enough to take it between his teeth, pulling it out and letting it clatter to the floor.
It prompted him for a PIN code. Now Ernest discovered that his paws were also too unwieldy to enter the numbers properly, and his nose was too broad; he quickly found himself locked out. He growled again -- on purpose -- and looked for the door. This, with its rounded handle, proved another impossible task; he settled for the half-open window that looked out on the landing, nudging it all the way up and then putting his paw through the screen. If it was a dream, the damage would be reversed when he awoke; if not, well, he had bigger fish to fry. He hopped through, alighting outside next to the stairs that led down to the courtyard below. His legs were already feeling less unwieldy.
Unleashed dogs were relatively uncommon; there were still people out and about, but they gave him a wide berth, shrinking back, exchanging worried glances. "Is that --" he heard someone ask, and, a few seconds later: "Should someone call the cops?"
He stopped, and turned around. "Yes," he tried to say. "Please -- please do." They stared at him with wide, frightened eyes, and Ernest began to realize that they could not understand him.
"Is it rabid? I think it's rabid..."
"What? No!" he shouted, half-desperate. At his snarling, the people drew back -- he heard a scream, and they started to scatter -- jostling each other, running up the street and away from them in a panic. He started to follow; a sharp hiss from an adjoining alleyway brought him up short.
He turned to see a scrawny grey cat, its ears back and its teeth bared. Ernest snapped at it, reflexively, and the cat's back arched, its tail puffed out like a bottlebrush. "Ssssstay_back_, wolf!" it spat. "Mother didn't raise her kittens to give ground to dumb brutes. You'll pay! For every inch!"
"What?" He leapt a few inches backwards. "Did you talk?"
The cat let out a bloodcurdling scream, flashing fangs again. "Did_I_ talk? Talk is the privilege of the street creatures. But you -- you're not like us." The tom edged backwards, glancing around for a means of escape. "Well, I'm not your prey!"
"I didn't say you were. I... I was just asleep, I don't..."
"Sleep?" the cat cackled, and sprung suddenly, scrambling onto a dumpster. "Sleep? Then you're the last. None shall sleep tonight... no, no. None dare sleep when the wolf prowls..." It was still bubbling and spitting with each breath, still stiff-legged and ferocious. "Run elsewhere, wolf. Seek other quarry -- or stay, for the two-legged wardens will be here for you soon..." It jumped again, onto a fire escape, and when it saw that Ernest could not follow it dashed away.
He could hear distant sirens, drawing closer. There was a subconscious panic:wolf? I can't be a wolf. The police will shoot me on sight. They'll take me prisoner. And a darker thought emerged: how dare they? I'll end them, if they try! Where had that come from?
Back on the sidewalk, again, he moved at an easy lope, trying to think of where he might find enough solitude to consider his options. Golden Gate Park presented itself; now he could feel where he was, as if by instinct, and the muscles in his powerful legs responded smoothly to his command. It was an alien feeling, but not altogether unpleasant.
The smooth grass of the park beneath his claws felt good; the wolf drew to a stop, relaxed, and glanced around to get his bearings again. The stars were hidden by a thick pelt of ominous grey clouds, and the night was cold -- there were few people about on such an evening, and he had the paths and open spaces to himself.
A few of the park creatures emerged -- but when they saw him, they drew away quickly, ears flattened in fear and respect. One, a young raccoon, stood her ground; the wolf snarled, and the kit turned tail and fled, so clumsy in her terror that the wolf knew he could've run the thing down and snapped her neck without exertion.
In flickers, the wolf's consciousness asserted itself:my name is Ernest, it said. I don't want to kill any raccoons. I don't even like the outdoors. But there was an intoxication to the power of his form, and the easy way the ground yielded beneath his paws as he trotted through the trees. Not tonight, Ernest, he thought. Tonight I'm in control -- then, and none dare sleep when I prowl.
A commotion, deeper into the woods, caught his attention, and with ears alert the wolf cantered over to see what was the matter. A pale form was turning in agitated circles, surrounded by darker shapes; he caught its voice, tense and frightened. "No -- hey, get away! I didn't ask for this!"
Closer, the white creature turned out to be a samoyed -- plush, thick fur that could only have been maintained with the care of dedicated owners. It was snapping at a trio of dogs -- a bloodhound, a short, animated corgi, and a poodle whose teeth were bared in a constant growl.
"What," the wolf growled coolly. "Do we have here?"
The four paused, turning to look at him. The samoyed's eyes widened, and its ears pinned back; the pack itself was more brash. "What's it to you?" the poodle grunted. "None of your business, wild one."
"I say it's my business," the wolf shot back. "Now answer me, dog."
"We found dessert," the corgi grinned ferally, licking his muzzle. "This little bitch here slipped her collar to go for an adventure. Atlas sniffed her out halfway across the park." The corgi jerked his muzzle towards the bloodhound; he was practically dancing with excitement. "He's good at that."
"M-my owners will be looking for me," the samoyed said softly. "I can't be caught out here."
The poodle stalked closer to her, feinting for her flank and giving a barking laugh when she jerked away. "But you are. Don't worry, we'll let you go when we're done..."
When he paused to consider it more closely, the wolf's sensitive nose caught an enticing hint of the samoyed's scent -- she was in season, mad enough with it to have escaped from her owners, and now facing the consequences. "I'm supposed to be bred to a... a_proper_ dog," she swallowed nervously. "T-t-tomorrow. Or the day after."
"You hear that, Quint?" the corgi danced on his short legs; he came up to the poodle's chest, at the highest point of his animated bouncing. "I think she said you're not a proper dog!"
"I -- I didn't mean that. You're a great dog... you're all great, I just... I can't... I'm not supposed to -- not now. N-not here."
"I say otherwise," the poodle rumbled. "Now why don't you cooperate and --"
The wolf snapped his powerful jaws to seize their attention. "Leave her alone."
"Fuck you!" the corgi laughed derisively. "We got here first."
"Yes, you did," the wolf admitted. "And you'll leave here first, too, or you won't leave at all."
Quint, the poodle, lifted an ear. "Was that a threat?"
"Merely a statement. Now run off and play somewhere else, before I have to teach you a lesson."
He wasn't certain where the threat in his voice was coming from. He'd never seen the dogs before -- certainly there was no reason to come to the aid of the samoyed except a vague sense, on his part, that_they_ did not deserve her. Her snowy fur was immaculate; her poise, even under the circumstances, was unmistakable. He could see why the dogs wanted her -- and why he would not let them.
"I... I dunno, Quint," Atlas mumbled; the bloodhound glanced away, back towards the footpaths and the remainder of the park. But Quint's hackles were up and -- fearing that he was about be denied his prize -- he sprang. The wolf dodged him easily, but with the intent of its leader made clear the pack joined in, spreading to either side, surrounding him.
The corgi danced in towards the wolf's flank; he felt teeth close briefly on his hind leg, and he kicked sharply, sending the little dog flying a few meters away. Then the bloodhound was after him, going for his side; the wolf whirled sharply, and his teeth scored sharp, bloody lines down the dog's muzzle. Atlas yelped in pain, abandoning his attack before Quint could press the initiative.
The poodle was the only one with a fighter's spirit anyway: the corgi tried again, and this time the wolf caught him with his teeth, tearing his shoulder down to the bone. With a terrified squeal the little dog found his feet and raced off, making good time even with the limp. Seeing his flight, the bloodhound swallowed nervously, and when Quint charged for the wolf Atlas took advantage of the break to run as well.
"You can flee too." The feral beast had crept into his brain again, guiding his body as he pressed towards the poodle, forcing him to give ground.
"Never," he snarled back -- but the defiance was not supported by any promise the poodle could honestly make; he was backing away, step by step.
"There's no shame in being a coward -- not for a dog," he added, as he force the poodle back and into a gnarled tree.
When his haunches brushed the wood Quint froze, and at the taunt he leapt for the wolf, off-balance and fueled by anger. The wolf was colder; calculating -- when Quint made his move the wolf's muzzle found his right foreleg, biting down hard until he felt the bones splinter.
The poodle reared back, too late -- eyes wide, the whites showing with terror. While he was frozen in the panic of the injury, the wolf sunk his fangs deep into Quint's exposed neck, and then jumped away to forestall any retaliation.
But retaliation was gone from the dog; blood gushed from his rent throat, and his desperate snarl became a rasping cough. He tried to run, but the first time his broken leg bore weight it collapsed, and he sprawled forward. He got up, staggered forward; collapsed again. This time when he tried to rise he could not; his legs kicked aimlessly, churning the forest floor into mud.
The wolf stepped over the writhing dog with a contemptuous snort, padding over to the samoyed, who stood transfixed, her wide eyes locked on Quint's weakening convulsions. The wolf was nearly at her side when she noticed him, spinning around. "Oh! Oh. Oh," she repeated; she was half-panting with her nervousness. "Th-thank you. For... for saving me from them."
"They weren't worthy of you."
"Well, I... I..." Then the samoyed trailed off. The wolf was too close; the look in his eyes was clear. "I really... I can't -- sir, I can't. Please let me... please let me go..."
"You don't mean that," the wolf said, his voice low, and nosed her shoulder roughly. "You know I'll let you go. You mean 'don't force yourself on me first,' don't you?" When she nodded, he snapped his teeth sharply, nosing her again. "You don't mean that, either."
His imposing bulk froze her for a second, but when he put his paw on her back her wits reasserted themselves, and the samoyed bolted. He tumbled, but recovered quickly, tearing after her. She was lighter, and quick on her feet, but the wolf had the advantage of long legs; he caught her not ten meters away, shoving the dog roughly down into the forest floor.
"What?" he snarled against her ear. "Where were you going?"
Her side was stained with dirt and fallen leaves, the pristine white coat smudged with brown. She whimpered softly. "Please... please don't do this..."
He bit her shoulder -- not hard enough to draw blood, but more than enough to remind her of her station. "Did you think I was another dog? Groveling? Begging you for your permission? Did you think I served at_anyone's_ pleasure? Let alone yours? Now get up."
"N-no. Not this; you don't have to do --"
"Up," he commanded again, and bit her harder. Little spots of crimson dappled her fur -- maybe not enough to ruin a career in the show ring, but unsightly and painful.
The samoyed rose unsteadily. Grunting his satisfaction, the wolf reared up again, getting his forelegs secure about her haunches. Her fur was plush, soft and warm; it felt good beneath him, spurring on his instincts. His hips jerked sharply, seeking her out; she yelped with each jab, her ears pinning flatter.
When he found her -- slick, hot and inviting, dripping wet with her heat -- he arched up strongly, sinking his cock in to the hilt. The samoyed quivered, a sob broken with helpless, animal satiation; he rocked into her again, and again. Each time her yelps became quieter; he could not tell, and did not care, if she was taking his thrusts stoically or deriving some fraction of the satisfaction he felt from the act.
He started to growl with the exertion, shoving his hips roughly into hers as she bore his weight, grinding up so that his sheath bunched up around the base of his shaft each time he plunged it into her unwilling body.
As his swelling knot pressed inside her the samoyed began to struggle again, so that he had to grip her hips roughly just to keep her from doing anything rash. She whined, begging in half-gasped words for him to stop, and the wolf was forced to clamp his jaws down, hard, on the scruff of her neck. She froze; that was enough, he pushed with his hind legs, strongly, holding himself deep inside the bitch, and when he tried to pull back he found that he could not.
Her forepaws scrabbled weakly at the dirt, her chest heaving with quiet, tearful yips. The wolf's growl deepened; then his hips hitched, and he felt pleasure spread like a burst dam through his bucking body. The dog beneath him let out a choking, wavering whine, and he knew she could feel his cum gushing deep inside her in hot pulses, splashing against her fertile walls.
He rode out the first few spurts of his release atop her back, and when they started to taper off he slumped from her, turning to face away from the inconsolable wretch. Now he was not quite certain why she had seemed so worthy -- perhaps it was merely her fur, or the way the purebred had seemed to carry herself.
"Why?" she whimpered, for completely different reasons.
"Because you needed it," he grunted. He was still filling her with his seed, and that in and of itself was pleasurable. "And I took care of that need for you."
"But my pups..."
"Your pups," he spat. "Will be the envy of every pack in this park. And the secret dread of all those helpless, contemptible weaklings who feel the fog of a fall night and draw their coats tighter, hurrying along because they fear the darkness."
The samoyed was not in any mood for poetry, and when his knot had finally shrunk enough to let him withdraw she collapsed, shaking her head. He snorted and let the bitch be, trotting back out the way he had came. Quint the poodle's lifeless eyes, he noted with appreciation, were turned to where they had been rutting; he must've seen at least some of it.
So this was what power meant? The wolf grinned, and at the edge of the woods, with the rest of the park beyond it, he paused to give a howl, letting it ebb away into the low-lying clouds. He trotted back towards his apartment -- then a thought occurred to him, and he took a brief detour to find a BMW, parked on a carefully tended street. He punctured its tires carefully, lifted his leg to relieve himself on the rear bumper, and headed back for home -- he was tired, and it was, after all, the early morning...
Ernest awoke an hour before his alarm, feeling better-rested than he ever had. He brought his hands to his face, carefully -- no, there was no muzzle. No sign of anything. He got up gingerly, trying to avoid looking at his front window. But there was his cell phone, on the floor, and when he glanced up, briefly, it was impossible to avoid seeing the shredded screen.
He remembered seeing things... doing things... but they were so outrageous that he wasn't certain they had occurred at all, and he felt no real guilt. He had tasted power; he chuckled softly, and got himself ready for work.
"You asked to see me?"
"Yes, sir," Ernest said. "Philip had said we need to put some work in over the weekend for the financial services account... unfortunately, I already have plans, so I can't, but I was looking into our work process and I don't think we have to at all. Philip sends things overnight to a renderer in Portland, but we can do the comps right here. I called around and found a good agency -- they're willing to do this on short notice. For less, even. I asked Phil but he says he'll have to be in late -- somebody slashed his tires, I guess. Damn punks. I figured I'd find out from you, sir..."
The boss of the firm, Chester -- the C in_CTM Cygnus_ -- nodded, slowly. "It's cheaper?"
"Yeah. By about a third. I think the guy we use in Portland is just an old friend of Phil's, if Facebook is any indication. I mean, we can use 'em in the future, but I figure, if we're on deadline..."
Chester laughed. "I like the way you think. We need more people like you. What do you have going on this weekend, anyway?"
"Friend's birthday party Saturday, sir."
"You know, the weather's supposed to start looking up. I was thinking about maybe taking the boat out Sunday and Monday -- bit of a vacation. You like fishing, Ernest?"
"Been a few years, but yeah. Fishing's great. If you're up for it, I'd love to."
The older man nodded, his eyes twinkling. "Sure thing. I'll pick you up first thing Sunday. Thanks for looking into this whole Portland affair."
With a spring in his step, Ernest returned to his desk. At lunch, he hailed a taxi, and made his way into the Mission, seeking out whatever looked like a suitable place. It wasn't hard to find; behind the cracked glass of the storefront, the huckster was busy cleaning his shelves.
"You know that stuff you sold me yesterday?"
"Oh, yes? The placebo, I think you said? How was it?"
"You know, I've never felt better." Ernest smiled warmly. "I'd like six cases of it."
He froze, and put down the roll of paper towels. "Six cases?"
"Well, it really changed my life last night."
The huckster was silent; he swallowed a few times. "Do you know what you're getting yourself into?"
So he knew -- or guessed. "Getting myself into?" Ernest asked innocently. "Just an energy drink, I thought. I worked a late night... drank half of one, kept going... drank the other half this morning, right as rain. Better than coffee. What do you mean, 'getting myself into'?"
Another long period of silence descended. "It's just... certain people react to it in..." He shook his head, and Ernest could see he was trying to reassure himself. "A lot of money, that's all I meant. And I'm almost out."
"You have six cases right here."
"My only cases."
"You can make more. Really, you know, I'm just trying to do you a favor. You seemed like you really had to fight for it, at the farmer's market. I want to make sure you're secure. Or, you know, I work in marketing... I could send some other customers your way. Friends, or friends of friends. The boss of my firm, you know? He's friends with one of the deans at Berkeley... with the city police commissioner..."
"The police commissioner," the salesman repeated, licking his lips nervously. "But I'm not sure I'd have enough to sell her, either..."
"No," Ernest admitted. "Certainly not if I clean you out first."
"I see," the man said quietly. "Shall I draw up an invoice, then?"
Ernest nodded, smiling. He hailed a cab to take the stack of crates back to his apartment -- the screen was fixed already, he noted; apparently his phone call to the landlord had finally met with results. When the bottles were all safely in the refrigerator he rubbed his hands together in giddy anticipation. Then he left, shutting the door behind him.
Prowling.