Day Three (Compensation for Tuesday, October 23, 2008)

The voice over the phone began repeating Michael's words, " 'Today I will be starting a collection of short stories'--sound familiar, Michael?"
"Who is this?" Michael demanded.
"You have a lot of stories to tell, don't you Michael?" The voice was low and scratchy. Michael assumed his caller was also on a cell phone. It was the kind you'd hear in the movie 'Ransom' with Mel Gibson. The one where the guy who kidnaps Mel's son is also a police officer, and he wears one of those voice-scramblers to distort his voice. "Don't worry about who I am, just worry about yourself. Oh, wait! You do that anyways, don't you?"

Michael was becoming irritated. He wasn't about to sit here and take this from anybody. He snapped the phone shut and took it to the kitchen sink. He stared at it as the faucet drenched it in a continuous stream of hot water. Michael closed his eyes.

The phone in his living room rang. Michael turned and started toward it, leaving with water running. He snatched up the receiver. "Hello?"

"If I have your home address, don't you think I'd also have your home number? The cell phone facade was only for my amusement. And let me tell you: I'm amused."

Michael let out a hollow chuckle. He knew it wasn't funny and he knew it wasn't friendly. Whoever this guy was--whatever he was--was beyond him. He didn't know who he was, nor did he want to. He would rather have the guy stop calling. The gravelly voice came back, "Knock knock."
Not a second later, two pounds on his cherry-wood door announced a visitor. Michael spun to face the door. "What is this?!" He demanded.
"Answer it." The man replied.
Michael set the receiver down beside the phone. He walked over to the door and swung it toward him.
Nobody.
He peaked his head out and looked both the the right and to the left. No one. Nada. The only sign of movement was an old man across the street walking his greyhound. Other than that, the street in suburbia Connecticut seems calm--calm as usual. Michael returned and picked up the phone. "No one was there!"
"Are you sure?" The door slammed shut. Michael's heart skipped a beat. Footsteps. Then nothing.
Click.
The phone went dead in his hands. Michael set it in it's place quietly, trying not to announce his whereabouts. But he guessed that the man who knew his address--the same man who knew his phone number--knew exactly where he was.

Michael had to think quickly. If this crazy guy was in his house, he had plans for him. Plans that would make a grown man cry. He started toward the front door, hoping to get out. Maybe if he were in public, the crazy guy would be spotted by someone. Michael reached for the doorknob. A loud thunderclap screamed in his ears. A bullet slammed into his leg. Michael fell over, gripping his calf. The slug grazed his muscle, rendering it useless. He tried getting up, to no avail. Blood drained from his leg and he felt it going numb by the seconds.

A figure stepped out from behind a wall.