The room was eerily silent, the only sound being the pathetic whimpering of a frightened little dog.
The parents looked at each other, then turned their eyes to the boy.
“I’m sorry … I just don’t want him,” Mitchell cried, then turned and ran up the stairs to his bedroom.
The mother and father looked at each other with concern in their eyes, while the young pup, still cradled in the man’s arms, cried out in fear. Murphy stood for a moment, head hung low. He had been afraid of something like this and knew it was only going to get worse. The ghost dog left the kitchen, climbing up the stairs to make sure that his boy was all right. The door to his room was closed, and in the past that would have stopped him, but now …
Murphy passed through into the room to find the boy standing perfectly still, staring out the window at the falling night. He padded silently across the room and, standing on his haunches, looked out as his boy did. The sun was failing, and the shadows were growing, and in the darkness beyond the yard, something was stirring.
The same something that had been awakened on the day Murphy died.
* * *
Two Weeks Ago
Murphy had never seen its like.
The stone lay at the bottom of the muddy hole, entwined in thick, twisting vines, as if their job was to hold it firm.
Even above the noise of the storm, the dog could hear the sound it made, tickling the sensitive hairs inside his ears. He could see that Mitchell heard it as well, the boy smiling as the song—that’s what it sounded like—slithered its way inside their heads. And then images began to appear.
They saw the Earth when it was young, a world filled with much beauty—so much green, so much life.
Murphy wanted to run through these primeval fields with his boy, run and run and run, until they were so tired and thirsty. Just beyond the green was a stream with water so cold and fresh that it made them want to run and play some more.
Until a shadow fell over the land of green, blotting out the warmth of the sun, causing the grass to wither and brown and the stream to become stagnant, a breeding place for bugs that would carry disease.
In this new but ancient darkness they saw shadows coalescing into a new form, a skeletal thing that fed on the life of the young world, an evil spirit that grew stronger with the stolen essences of the living, plaguing the earliest tribes of man, drinking in the anguish of each human death and turning loss and rot and decay into its own weapons.
But the world did not care to be fed upon. As Murphy and his boy watched, it gave birth to something new, a comparable force to fight against the evil blight of the shadow thing. A great wolf, full of vibrant life, a beast totem and champion for nature. The world trembled as the opposing entities battled, light against dark, life versus death. The powers were evenly matched, their conflict ravaging the land, until a boy was born from the ranks of one ancient tribe … a boy who could stand with the great wolf and add his strength to that of the beast. Murphy and Mitchell were in awe as the primal battle played out before them—the boy and the great wolf dog standing side by side as the battle that would decide the fate of the world raged around them.
Driven to submission by that special boy and his wolfen companion, the evil spirit was bound in the vines of life, and dragged down into the earth, surrounded by the perpetual presence of the world’s consciousness, imprisoned by the force that it had sought to feed upon.
Murphy suddenly saw the evil spirit, its body like thick, black smoke, flowing around his boy, and the world going gradually dark as Mitchell began to scream.
Murphy emerged from the dream with a start, jumping back from the edge of the gaping hole. The wind wailed, beating at the woods, as the rain fell again in driving sheets. Mitchell still knelt at the lip of the hole. Fearing for the boy’s safety, he approached with caution, hoping to pull him back and away from the hole, and the strange blue stone that filled their heads with images of the past.
Murphy realized in horror that the boy was still in the grip of the stone, staring with unblinking eyes at the unearthed artifact. The stone continued to hum like a hive of angry bees, the sound gradually intensifying, and Murphy sensed that nothing good would be coming from this. Carefully he extended his snout, grabbing at the pocket of Mitchell’s raincoat and pulling.
Then he saw it, tendrils of oily black, snaking out from tiny cracks that had formed upon the surface of the wet, blue stone.
Snaking tendrils that were slithering up toward his boy’s outstretched hand.
Murphy reacted in the only way he knew how. Throwing the weight of his body against the boy, he knocked him down and away as he placed himself in the path of the striking feelers.
The dog felt a moment’s relief as the boy thrashed upon the ground, cursing as he struggled to get to his feet.
But that relief was quickly replaced with incomparable pain as Murphy felt the spirit’s bite.
The tendrils of black struck like snakes, darting forward to stab beneath his thick yellow fur, entering the flesh beneath and filling his body with a cold unlike any winter he had experienced in his eleven years upon the world.
Murphy yelped, falling on his side as his boy’s cries rose above the storm. The dog felt the dark spirit flowing inside him. He felt its anger at him for thwarting its attempt upon the boy, and even though his pain was great, Murphy took pleasure in the black spirit’s frustration, and failure.
Mitchell was at his side, shouting his name over and over again, and it was his boy’s plaintive voice that brought Murphy back from the brink. He had to get his boy to safety, he had to get him away from the woods and back to their home.
Murphy managed to crawl to his feet. Mitchell threw his arms about his thick neck, hugging him and asking if he was all right.
Murphy knew the answer, but would not have shared it with the boy even if he could have spoken. They had to get away from this place as quickly as they could.
Looking into his boy’s eyes, he barked once, weakly, and turned his head to run. He stumbled slightly, as a numbness began to spread through his legs, but he quickly regained his footing. He barked again, urging the boy to follow.
Mitchell did, following him closely, away from the toppled tree and the gaping hole that held an evil as old as the beginning. Murphy knew that the spirit would not pursue them, its unsuccessful strike on his boy having weakened it, but they still had the storm Irene to deal with.
The wind fought to push them back, and Murphy struggled against it with dwindling strength, hopeful that he would be able to get his boy out of the woods before he was too weak to continue.
His back legs were the first to fail him, and the dog felt himself dropping to the ground, front paws desperately attempting to drag himself farther.
Mitchell cried out, falling by his side, trying to help him rise, but it was too late. The numbness was spreading quickly, and Murphy could not remember ever feeling so cold.
“C’mon, boy,” Mitchell said frantically. “We’ll get you home and you’ll be fine.”
For his boy, Murphy struggled to rise, but it was to no avail. Mitchell tried to pick him up, but he was too heavy and they both fell upon the muddy ground as the storm continued to pound them.
“Help!” Mitchell cried above the yowling winds. “Help us … please!”
Murphy wished that he could have helped his boy, adding his own barks and howls, but all he could do was lie there, feeling the touch of evil spread through him, stealing away his life.
He felt the boy’s tender hand upon his head, and heard his voice in his ear. “I’m gonna go for help. You stay here and don’t move. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
And then he felt Mitchell’s lips upon his brow, a gentle kiss that made him hope he was strong enough to survive until his boy’s return.
Murphy angled his head upon the leaf-covered ground to see the boy running away from him, only to be stopped by a much larger shape that emerged from the shadows to block his path. Findi
ng some last reserve of strength, Murphy managed to leap to his feet with a ferocious snarl, ready to defend his boy with every last ounce of his dwindling life, but he quickly saw that there was no need, for it was the father who appeared.
The father had come searching for them in the storm.
“Something’s wrong with Murphy, Dad,” he heard the boy say, just before all was given up to darkness.
* * *
Now
The thing in the woods—in the hole beneath the tree—had retreated, but Murphy knew that its withdrawal was only temporary, for it badly wanted his special boy.
Murphy turned from the window to Mitchell, who had climbed into bed and was already fast asleep, safe.
For now.
The dog left the room with a new purpose, descending the steps to the first floor in search of the thing that might have been the best hope for his boy’s continued safety.
What are the odds that a dog pup would be brought into the house at this very time, when the evil spirit is stirring? he wondered as he padded through the kitchen.
The pantry door had been left open, and newspaper spread out on the floor. He stood in the doorway and stared at the puppy, asleep atop a blue blanket inside a small crate. He had to admit, this pup was one of the odder-looking young dogs that he had ever seen, with his squat muscular body, round head, and pointy ears, just like a bat.
The pup’s large, round eyes suddenly opened.
“What are you looking at?” he asked.
Murphy was startled, looking around to make sure that he was alone.
“You can see me?”
“Of course I can see you,” the pup answered.
Again Murphy experienced the slightest hint of hope.
The pup lifted his round head, the black nose on his flat face sniffing the air.
“How come you don’t have a smell?” the pup asked curiously. “Did you just have a bath?”
“It’s a side effect of my current condition, I’m afraid.”
“Your current condition?” the pup asked him. “What’s that?”
“I’m dead,” Murphy said flatly.
“Dead?” the pup squeaked. “As in dead-dead? As in not alive anymore?”
Murphy remained silent, letting the pup work through his reaction.
“You … you’re a ghost dog?”
“I am at that,” Murphy said.
“How did you…” The pup gulped, retreating to the back of his crate.
“Die? I died while protecting my boy,” Murphy began to explain. “A duty that has now been passed to you.”
* * *
Then
The pull of the end was getting stronger.
Murphy did not remember much after the father had lifted him up from the forest floor and carried him back to the house.
What he did remember was the sense of relief as he and his boy were taken farther from the woods, the toppled tree, and what was stirring at the bottom of the hole.
Murphy could hear his boy’s plaintive cries, commanding him to get up, telling him that he was all right, and if Murphy had been able, he would have happily complied, but the spirit’s touch had made that impossible.
The darkness had taken him for a time, and when he managed to stir again, he was no longer at the house. The scent told him he was at the doctor’s place—the veterinarian’s office—where his boy and the father took him when he was sick or needed his shots.
It was not one of his favorite places, but he knew it was probably the best place for him to be at that particular moment. He could hear the doctor’s voice and smell the nice people who usually gave him treats as he left the office. He understood that they were all trying to help him, but Murphy feared that there was very little they could do.
The sudden cold of the examination table through his fur made him realize that the darkness had taken him again. This time he could hear the father’s voice as he spoke with the doctor, and felt the touch of his boy as Mitchell gently stroked the fur about his neck.
“I’m sorry,” the doctor was saying. “Whatever is causing Murphy’s condition is moving too fast for us to stop it.”
“Isn’t there anything…” the father began.
“I’m afraid we’ve done everything we can,” the doctor replied.
His boy was crying now, burying his face in the fur at his throat. Murphy wanted so much to lick his tears away, to press himself against him, to show him that it would be all right, but what the spirit in the woods had done to him …
“Please don’t leave … stay with me,” Mitchell whispered, rubbing one of Murphy’s velvety ears between his thumb and finger. “Please stay. If only I’d stayed inside like I was supposed to…” The boy was crying all the harder now, and Murphy could feel the dampness of Mitchell’s tears upon his fur, though he could feel little else.
“I’m so sorry,” the boy cried. “I’m so, so sorry.”
Murphy hated to leave his boy this way, but he had no choice. He tried to remain longer, to hold on to a body now numbed with sickness, but there was a stronger power at work, and Murphy found himself drawn from his form. Like a bird, he was hovering above the scene in the office. He saw his boy overcome with emotion, holding on to the body of a dying dog.
And suddenly Murphy knew that he was no longer part of the living world. He hesitated for a moment, already missing the touch of his boy, watching as the father tried to comfort him. But Murphy knew it was time to move on.
He traveled up through the ceiling of the veterinarian’s office and beyond, higher than any bird had ever flown.
Any living bird.
And he found himself in the most incredible place. It was greener than any other place he had ever seen, and the air was filled with a multitude of incredible smells for him to investigate.
Murphy moved through the tall grass, the urge to run energizing his every limb, when the rabbits appeared. The two emerged from the grass before him, noses twitching, and he let out a bark to scare them away so he could give chase, but they just sat, staring at him with their small, black eyes.
“Why aren’t you running?” Murphy asked, bending low and sticking his rump into the air. “I want to chase you.”
“Not yet,” one of the rabbits said with a shake of its head.
“You can chase us another time,” said the other. “When the boy is safe.”
Murphy tilted his head to the side, suddenly remembering his boy.
“I’m afraid they’re right, Murphy,” said an unfamiliar voice, and Murphy turned to see an old man and an equally old dog moving toward him through the grass.
It was the dog that was speaking.
“You look troubled,” he said. “What’s wrong?”
“I had forgotten my boy, until the rabbits spoke of him,” Murphy replied sadly.
“That’s to be expected when one travels from there to here,” the old dog explained. “Usually one doesn’t have to even think of the old life, but I’m afraid that you don’t have that choice.”
Murphy studied the old man and dog, feeling a strange familiarity about them. “Who are you?” he asked as the sweet-smelling wind rustled the tall grass and made it sing.
“You and your boy saw the message we left,” the old dog said. “The one beneath the tree.”
And then Murphy knew who they were, only now they were far, far older.
“The boy and wolf dog, the ones that helped the earth capture the evil spirit.”
“Yes. We were the first,” the old dog said as the man reached out to scratch behind his ears. “As you and your boy are the last.”
Murphy didn’t understand. “The last? The last of what?”
“The last in a line of protectors,” the old dog explained, the breeze ruffling his fur as he turned his dark snout to the wind. “You were supposed to protect and guide him.”
“Who?” Murphy asked. “My boy?”
“Your boy is special.” The old dog turned his large head toward the old man besi
de him. “As was mine.”
The old dog returned his deep gaze to Murphy.
“These special boys have the ability to shape the world and protect it from darkness. Equally special dogs are born to watch over them and guide them down the correct path.”
“Am I one of those dogs?” Murphy asked.
“You were,” the old dog said. “But the spirit has grown stronger over the millennia. It sensed a power in your boy that could free it from its prison, and so it struck.”
“But I stopped the spirit,” Murphy said. “My boy is safe.”
“For now,” the old dog agreed. “But there is no dog to guide him.”
Murphy felt a shudder of fear pass through him.
“The spirit is awake,” continued the old dog, “and will try for your boy again.”
“We have to do something,” Murphy said anxiously. “We have to protect my boy.”
“And that is why you will not be chasing rabbits,” the old dog said, and the old man nodded sadly in agreement.
“Are we going to return to the living world?” Murphy asked.
“In a sense. But you will be returning alone, and you will not be alive.”
Murphy’s head tilted quizzically.
“You will be a ghost dog, invisible to most—”
“A ghost dog?” Murphy interrupted. “How can I protect my boy if he can’t even see me?”
“The boy must have a guide,” the old dog said.
“Yes, but what kind of guide can I be as a ghost?”
“A special boy without a guide can be a terrible thing for the world,” the old dog continued as if he hadn’t heard.
“Yes, I know, but how can I guide him if…”
“A boy must have a guide,” the old dog repeated one last time as he and the old man slowly turned, walking away through the tall grass.
“Wait!” Murphy barked. “I don’t understand!”
But the ancient pair did not stop. Murphy was considering giving chase when he felt tiny eyes upon him. He turned and saw that the rabbits were still there, watching him.
“I don’t understand,” he told them. “I was the special dog … the guardian … but I’m no longer alive.”
21st Century Dead Page 21
