The last time I'd seen my seven-year-old beagle, Baxter, was at Rocky Mountain National Park on a hiking trail near Fern Lake. I had waited for three days for him to return to our camp. Now, five hundred miles and three weeks later, I hear him rattling his water dish on the back porch.
Looking through the window, I could see the silhouette of a dog. There was a heavy fog and the sky was full of dark clouds. Rushing through the back door, I called out Baxter's name, knowing that he would come running and jump into my arms. As I called his name, he stopped drinking and looked in my direction. I called once more. The silhouette suddenly hunched into what I could only describe as a dog's attack position. Now I was nervous. Had Baxter forgotten me? Had he changed? Nervously, I called his name again. The silhouette slowly approached, still growling.
As he came into my vision, what I saw made my heart leap into my throat. The dog shouldn't have been alive. No skin, tissue, or muscle could be seen, except for small snippets of rotten flesh still clinging to it's bones. The growling emitted from it's rotted throat was low, but I could detect a hint of what was almost...happiness. An evil, demonic growl of pleasure. I was right. Baxter had indeed changed.
YOU ARE READING
A Book Of Short Stories & Poems
DiversosThis is a book of short stories and a few poems that I have written over the years. You will find more short stories here than you will poems, as I have never been much of a poet. You'll also find that many of the short stories take place in a fan...
