A stray dog is staring at me.

A stray dog is staring at me.

I stop and squeeze my lungs. The air feels like damp rats and furry vomit—what the hell is a stray dog doing in a rusty ol' house anyway?

I look back right at its face. I realize: the dog wasn't staring at me at all. Its stare is cold-pierced to the space behind me. Or in front of me. Not me. The dog's not staring at me. So I continue wandering around. The space is cramped with furniture, yet so empty at the same time. Room is filled with moldy couches and dying bookshelves—the wood breathes asthma. Spider webs here and there. My throat hurts a little, either from the dust or the chilly air—I don't know. So weird that a house full of woods tastes like iron on the thoat. Weird. No wonder people have grown damn sick trying to figure out this case--the house is dense with spite.

I keep wandering anyway. Searching. I swear I will scratch my ribs off if I have to flunk out of this damn house without a single clue about what happened. Again. Not tonight. The murder's been eating my mind for too many nights. Who did the murder? Was it really a suicide? The unknowingness itches my skull, like ten-legged spiders crawling in-and-out of lumps inside my brain. I have to figure it out tonight. And it's cold, and dark, and rusty here.

The dim light spins my head from time-to-time. But it's just enough light to figure out that the damn chandelier above is a freaking chandelier, and not a disfigured dead body hanging from above or something. Haha. Dead body. Disfigured. Shit. Why that? I'm alone. It's not funny.

Well the stray dog keeps following me. Sat near the edge of the stairwell. It doesn't bark or anything. I can't even tell if he breathes. It looks so... still. Is it hungry? Well I'm hungry too. With this kind of nosiness, I wonder if this dog has seen the tragedy of the murder. And if he could just tell me what happened. I don't enjoy searching this house, I really don't.

Right before my surrender for the unknowingness of the night, something really weird happens as I got off the second story. I swung my last step off the creaky stair-step and then I just... I went all dazed. I swear this case has gotten me insane: I forgot. Whose murder am I investigating? Why am I here? For god's sake, I forgot.

The goddamn stray dog is now just below the arch that leads to the reading room. And it's staring at me.

How could I forget? I must've not eaten enough last night. Or slept enough. How many days have I gone without sleeping? And why is the ceiling coming at me?

For heaven sake I can't figure out what the dog wants. He keeps staring at me. Or the space around me. And I never liked dogs, I remembered.

The dog is staring at me and his face is ugly. Sweaty saliva pooling down its ugly snout: a thick strand of infection.

I think there is a black drop of blood tearing off the chandelier. The ceiling smells acidic. And the dog is staring at me. Its stare makes my palms sweat. His face. I can't stand it. I'm dizzy. And why am I here?

So I walked near him. Dragged my feet against the stinkin' carpet, plowing the thick layer of dead skin, flying dusts onto the air my lungs pull. They burn my nose like shit but I don't care. My feet hurt. And the damn stray dog isn't getting his ugly eyeballs off me. I can't take it anymore

So, with the bluntest object, I murdered the dog.

The dog isn't staring at me anymore. My palms stop sweating.

I gripped the flapping lose skin under its neck and dragged the dog's dead body against the splintery wooden floor, up to the second floor. Wooden needles of the floor scratch the dog's pores like it deserves. One stairstep at a time. I grin. I take my time. Why does everything have to be unholy? I bet heaven's full of sinners too.

My arms start to hurt from pulling his weight. The damn thing's so heavy. No dog is this heavy, I swear to god. And I'm hungry.

I put a collar around the dog's neck, like a nice innocent puppy he should've been—would he have buggered off and stopped staring at me? Well what's done is done. I tied the end of the leash on one of the railing poles. And dropped the dog downstairs. Hanging. Swinging. Left. Right. Left. Right. Nice. It floats majestically next to the chandelier.

Now, this is kind of funny. Because I realized it wasn't a chandelier all along. I chuckled. Stop. Stop. But it's funny: That chandelier was me! It was me hanging! And I swear it's so funny. The dim light in this house does shits to your head, I'm telling you.

I also realized.... it wasn't a dog all along. Classic. No wonder why boy's so heavy. The hanging dog's probably another sad bitch—some stinky murderer, a cheater, or a smuggler. Or filthy sex animals. Or phony-ass priest who masturbates to children's thighs—exorcise my ass! The house is full of sinners, I swear. In a heaven we're all eternal, aren't we? I welcome her anyway. A new addition to the house. Join us inside the barn, the well, the ceiling, the bed. Welcome to Greybriar's house.

The house wasn't so empty after all. And I look forward to tomorrow: I hope there won't be any more ugly stray dog staring at me on tomorrow's search.