by Neil Jackson
“Denise, did you hear that?” he asked loudly.
She did not stir.
He leaned out the window again and started screaming. “Shut that stupid mutt up. I’m gonna call the dog catcher if you don’t shut that dog up.”
His screams finally woke Denise. She rolled over and said “Jerry, what’s wrong?”
“It’s that dog again. Can’t you hear the barking?”
She listened for a second. “No. I don’t hear anything.” She paused to listen again. “Are you okay, honey?”
Jerry was about to start screaming at her when he realized that he didn’t hear the barking now, either. “Well, it stopped. My yelling must have scared it away.”
He got back into bed and tried to sleep, but the barking started almost instantly. He started to get up several times, but the barking stopped each time his feet hit the ground.
Jerry spent an extra ten minutes in the shower, trying to wake up. He had the water temperature several degrees colder than normal, but he still couldn’t stop yawning.
As he was getting dressed, a dog barked somewhere in the distance. Jerry opened the bedroom window and leaned out in an attempt to identify the barking dog in the daylight.
“Now what?” His voice was filled with anger.
He stormed down the stairs and nearly collided with Denise in the kitchen as she was pouring his coffee.
“Have you seen the yard?” he asked her.
“The yard? What about it?”
“There’s garbage strung all over the side yard,” he said. “I saw it from the bedroom window.”
Jerry rushed to the back door and flung it open. Denise walked up behind him and gasped as she looked out. All three of their trash cans were turned over and their garbage was strung all over the yard.
Jerry pulled off his socks as he went out in the yard. He began to pick up the trash cans and put them back on the porch. As he walked towards the third can, his still-sore foot fell into a deep hole that had been partially hidden by a grocery bag covered in spaghetti sauce.
He fell to his knees and cursed loudly.
“What happened?” Denise called from the porch.
“I fell into a Goddamned hole. Whaddya you think happened?” Jerry pulled his throbbing foot out and looked into the freshly dug hole. “There’s chicken bones in here. The damned mutt tried to bury them.”
“Just come back inside, honey,” Denise coaxed. “I’ll rake it all up while you’re at work.”
He stood up and stepped backwards. He immediately made a face of disgust as the soft, warm material squished between his toes.
“Honey, what’s wrong?” Denise asked.
“I just stepped in dog shit. I’m buying a gun!” His voice sounded more like a snarl as he wiped his foot on the grass several times and then limped past her.
“Jerry, no!” Denise said firmly. “You know how I feel about guns. I don’t want one in our house.”
Jerry spun around and glared at her. For the first time in more years than he could remember, Denise did not look away from his challenging stare. He didn’t see confrontation in her eyes, but he did see resolve.
“Whatever!” he hissed. “I’ll find another way to deal with that stupid mutt.”
“Do you want me to make you another piece of toast?” Denise asked gently. “I’ll warm up your coffee.”
“I don’t have time. I’m already late for work and I’ve gotta take another shower. I’m covered in dog shit and garbage.” Jerry stormed out of the kitchen.
Jerry pulled the heavy box out of the trunk of his car and started for the house. He saw a large pile of crap in the center of Denise’s flowerbed. The muscles in the back of his neck tightened up as he climbed the steps to the porch and vowed to kill the dog.
The aroma of roast beef filled the air as he hobbled into the kitchen, grumbling under his breath. Even the smell of his favorite meal didn’t make up for his throbbing ankle or his lack of sleep.
“Whattcha got?” Denise asked as she looked up from the pot she was stirring on the stove.
“Traps. I went to the hardware store and bought a bunch of traps for that stupid mutt.”
“Traps? The kind that let you catch it and release it somewhere else or the kind that’ll hurt it?”
“I hope they hurt,” he said. “Otherwise, I spent eighty bucks for nothing.”
“Isn’t there anything else we can do?”
“I called the dog catcher from work. He said they would make a few trips through the neighborhood tonight, but they can’t do anything if they can’t find it.”
“I just don’t want to hurt another dog,” Denise said quietly.
Jerry had to bite his tongue at the mention of the “other dog.” He planned to kill this dog, too, and he didn’t want Denise’s compassion to get in the way.
“I’ve gotta do something. I haven’t slept in three days.” He sat down at the table and started to carefully unlace his shoe. “My ankle is killing me. It’s swollen to twice its normal size. You can’t be too happy about the garbage and the hole in the back yard.”
“Well, no, but I still don’t want you to hurt it.”
Then lucky I didn’t tell you about the rat poison, he thought as he pulled his shoe off and winced in pain.
“Maybe your favorite dinner will help calm you,” Denise said. “I’ve even got those baby carrots you like so much.”
The smell of the food combined with Denise’s demeanor started to relax him. “Okay. If I can get some sleep tonight, I won’t hurt the dog. Maybe I can take these traps back and get a live trap instead. Then we can catch him and take him to the pound.”
By the time supper was ready, he was actually starting to believe that.
Jerry closed his eyes and laid his head back. The warm water in the bathtub, combined with the two glasses of wine and three helpings of roast beef, started to relax him. The Epson salt in the water even made his abused ankle feel a little better.
He soaked in the bath until the water started to get cold.
When he walked into the bedroom, he was less tense than he had been in a long time. Denise was already in bed, reading a magazine.
“Are you feeling any better?” she asked.
“You know, I really am.” He paused and then said, “And I haven’t heard a dog bark since I’ve been home.”
“That’s good. Maybe you scared it away. I hope you’ll be able to get some sleep.”
“That won’t be a problem. I’m so tired that I could sleep through anything tonight.”
“Good night, honey.” Denise put the magazine on the night stand and turned off the light.
“Night,” Jerry muttered as he closed his eyes and welcomed the darkness.
Jerry’s eyes snapped open. The clock on the night stand read 11:03. Everything was quiet. He lay very still, listening to Denise breathing next to him as he tried to figure out what had him wide-awake in just less than two hours after they went to bed.
He had just summed it up to his imagination when he heard the barking. He jumped out of bed and ran to the window. As he opened it, the sounds of the barking got louder. It seemed closer now.
“Denise,” he said softly.
She did not stir.
“Denise.” His voice was a little louder now.
Still nothing.
He quietly closed the window and snuck down the stairs and into the kitchen.
He raided the refrigerator and took the rest of the roast beef out.
Jerry carried the box of traps out onto the back porch and started to set each one of them, baiting them with a generous hunk of roast beef laced with enough rat poison to kill a small elephant.
The barking seemed to be coming from every direction as he placed the twelve traps around the back yard.
Satisfied with his placement of the traps, he went back to bed with a smile on his face.
Denise woke up to the sound of a dog howling–or more accurately, screaming.
“Jerry, w
ake up.” She put her hand on the crumpled bedspread next to her. It was empty.
The dog scream-howled again and Denise’s jumped up.
“The traps!” she shouted as she sprang out of the bed. “He set those God-awful traps.”
She ran down the stairs and into the kitchen. The back door was open and there was a large pile of crap in the doorway. She jumped at the sound of the howl. It was weaker now, but she was certain it was coming from the back yard.
Denise gingerly stepped over the smelly mess and went out onto the back porch.
She froze at the top of the steps, staring at the horrific scene in front of her as if she were dreaming.
Jerry was lying in the middle of the yard. Both of his feet and one of his hands were caught in the traps, their sharp, metal teeth buried deep into his flesh. His free hand–if it could still be considered a hand–was missing three fingers and the tip of the thumb. Denise could see the bloody fingers lying inside of one of the nearby traps. He was dressed only in his underwear and a T-shirt, and they were covered in dirt, sweat, and blood.
“Jerry!” she cried as she started down the steps.
Jerry slowly raised himself to his hands and knees. His body began to shake as he spewed the contents of his stomach onto the ground. Denise recognized the large chunks of roast beef in the frothy mess and nearly got sick herself.
She took a step forward and Jerry lifted his head slightly and started to growl and snap at her, blood and spit dripping from his mouth. She stopped and stared in disbelief as Jerry tilted his head back and began to howl. When he did, Denise could clearly see his neck. He was wearing a large pink dog collar.
HAUNTED - Scott Nicholson
“Do it again, Daddy.” Janie’s coloring book was in her lap, forgotten.
Darrell smiled and thumbed open the top on his Zippo lighter. He struck the flint wheel and the flame burst to life. The dancing fire reflected in each of Janie’s pupils. Her mouth was open in fascination.
“It’s pretty,” she said.
“And so are you. Now back to your coloring. It’s almost bedtime.” Darrell flipped the silver metal lid closed, snuffing the orange flame.
Janie put the coloring book in front of her and rolled onto her stomach. She chose a crayon. Gray. Darrell frowned and placed the lighter by the ashtray.
Rita tensed in her chair beside him. She reached out with her thin hand and gripped his arm. “Did you hear that?” she whispered.
Darrell listened. Janie was humming to herself. The wax of the crayon made a soft squeak across the paper. The clock on the mantel ticked once, again, three times, more.
He tried to hear beyond those normal sounds. His hearing was shot. Too much Elvis, Rita always said. Too much Elvis would make anybody deaf.
“From the kitchen,” she said. “Or outside.”
Janie heard the same noise that Rita was hearing. She cocked her head, the crayon poised above the page. She stopped kicking her feet, the heels of her saddle shoes nearly touching her back.
“Mice, most likely,” he said, too loudly. He was head of the household. It was his job to put on a brave face. The expression fit him like a glass mask.
Why didn’t the damned dog bark? Dogs were supposed to be sensitive to spirits from the other side. He put down the newspaper, paper crackling. Mayor Loeb and Martin Luther King looked out from the front page. Black and white.
“Terribly loud mice,” Rita finally answered. Darrell shot her a glance, then rolled his eyes toward Janie. Rita was usually careful in front of their daughter. But having those noisy things around had been stressful.
“Sounds like it’s coming from the kitchen,” he said with what he hoped was nonchalance. He pulled his cigar from his mouth. He rarely smoked, and never inside the house. But they were a comfort, with their rich sweet smell and tangy taste and the round weight between his lips.
He laid the cigar carefully beside his lighter, propping up the damp end on the ashtray so the dust wouldn’t stick to it. The ashtray was shaped like a starfish. They’d gotten it on their honeymoon to Cuba, back when Americans were allowed to visit. He could still see the map of the island that had been painted on the bottom of the glass.
Darrell stood, his recliner groaning in relief. He looked down at the hollow impression in the woven seat of the chair. Too much food. Too much food, and too much Elvis.
Can’t go back. Can’t get younger. Can’t change things. He shook his head at nothing.
“Don’t bother, honey. The mice won’t hurt anything.” Rita chewed at the red end of her index finger.
“Well, we can’t let them have the run of the house.” It was their secret code, worked out over the long sleepless night. Janie didn’t need to know. She was too young to understand. But the things were beyond anybody’s understanding, no matter what age a person was.
Darrell glanced at the big boxy RCA that cast a flickering shadow from one corner of the room. They usually watched with the sound turned down. Barney Fife was saying something to Andy, his Adam’s apple twitching up and down like a turkey’s.
“Get me a soda while you’re up?” Rita asked. Trying to pretend everything was normal.
“Sure. Anything for you, pumpkin?”
Janie shook her head. He wished she would go back to coloring. Her eyes were wide now, waiting. He was supposed to protect her from worries.
She put the gray crayon back in the box. Fifteen other colors, and she almost always used gray. Freud would probably have made something of that. Darrell hoped she would select a blue, even a red, something vibrant and found in rainbows. His heart tightened as she chose black.
He walked past her and turned up the sound on the television. Beginning to whistle, he headed across the living room. No tune came to mind. He forced a few in-between notes and the music jumped track somewhere in his throat. He began again, with ‘I See the Moon.’ Janie’s favorite.
Where was that dog? Always underfoot when Darrell went through the house, but now nowhere to be found. Nothing like this ever happened back in Illinois. Only in Tennessee.
He was in the hall when he heard Aunt Bea’s aria from the living room: “An-deeeee!”
They used to watch The Outer Limits, sometimes The Twilight Zone. Never again. They got too much of that sort of thing in real life. Now it was nothing but safe, family fare.
Darrell eased past the closet. His golf clubs were in there, the three-wood chipped where he’d used it to drive a nail into the kitchen drawer that was always coming apart. Cobwebs probably were stretched between the irons. Par for the course, these days.
He stopped outside the kitchen. A bright rectangle of light spilled into the hallway. Mice were supposed to be scared of house lights. Well, maybe mice were, but those things weren’t. Then why did they only come at night?
There was a smudge of fingerprints on the doorway casing. Purple. Small. Grape jelly.
He tried to yawn, but his breath hitched. He checked the thermostat, even though it was early autumn and the temperature was fairly constant. He looked around for another excuse for delay, but found none.
The kitchen floor was off-white linoleum, in a Pollock sort of pattern that disguised scuffs and stains. Mice would find nothing on this floor.
The Formica counters were clean, too. Three soiled plates were stacked in the sink. He didn’t blame Rita for avoiding the chore. No one wanted to be alone in the kitchen, especially after dinner when the sun had gone down.
A broom leaned against the little door that hid the folding-out ironing board. He wrapped his hands around the smooth wood. Maybe he could sweep them away, as if they were dust balls.
Darrell crossed the kitchen slowly, the broom held across his chest. As he crouched, he felt the bulge of his belly lapping over his belt. Both he and his crosstown hero were packing on the weight in these later years.
Where was that dog? A few black-and-white clumps of hair stuck to the welcome mat at the back door. That dog shed so much, Darrell wouldn’t be s
urprised if it was invisible by now. But the mess was forgivable, if only the mutt would show up. A good bark would scare those things away.
He parted the curtain on the back door. The grass in the yard had gotten tall and was a little ragged. George next door would be tut-tutting to his wife. But George was retired, he had nothing on his mind but lawn fertilizer. There was a joke in there somewhere, but Darrell wasn’t in the mood to dig it up.
A little bit of wind played in the laurel hedge, strong enough to make the seat of Janie’s swing set ease back and forth. Of course it was the wind. What would those things want with a swing set? The set’s metal poles were flecked with rust. He didn’t remember that happening. Gradual changes weren’t as noticeable, he supposed.
In the dim light, the world looked colorless. Nothing else stirred. If they were out there, they were hiding. He almost expected to hear some corny organ music like they played on the ‘Inner Sanctum’ radio program.
He was about to drop the curtain and get Rita’s soda, and maybe a beer for himself, when he saw movement. Two shapes, wispy and pale in the faded wash of the backyard. Trick of the moonlight. Yeah. Had to be. They didn’t exist, did they?
He looked forward to the beer bubbling in his throat. The bitter sweetness wasn’t as crisp as it used to be back when he was young. Maybe everything got flatter and less vivid as a person got older. Senses dulled by time and timelessness.
The big General Electric was nearly empty. The celery had wilted. Something on the middle wire shelf had separated into layers. He didn’t dare open the Tupperware container to see what was inside. A half-dozen eggs roosted in their scooped-out places. One had a hairline crack, and a clear jewel of fluid glistened under the fluorescent light.