When the dark let me go, the first thing I heard was sirens.
I was standing in some kind of warehouse: by the weak orange glow of the streetlights beyond the window at the room's far end I could see that the walls were made of bare concrete. The air was cold and damp but my body was warm and clammy: I was breathing hard, like I'd been running.
Where was I? How had I got there? The last I remembered I'd been at my front door with my keys out – then blackness had swarmed down over my eyes and here I was.
My hands were sticky, smeared with something I didn't identify – not until I looked past my fingers and saw that the shadowy lump on the floor in front of me was a body.
Blood on my hands. And the sirens were getting closer.