Hell Hound

by Ken Greenhall

  The boy has returned. He conceals nothing. His malice is obvious, and even now I feel a fleeting admiration for him. We have learned from each other, and something of the other’s strength will live on in whichever of us survives.

  Strength does not die.

  Four

  Carl gathered his weapons at the edge of the pit. He had chosen carefully: rocks, scrap metal, objects heavy enough to stun and crush, but not too heavy to be thrown accurately. He was grateful for the sounds the objects made as he stacked them up: harsh, percussive noises that obscured the steady, excited panting of the dog.

  First a rock: sharp-edged and dense. As the boy drew back his arm Baxter crouched tensely. The dog sprang easily aside when Carl’s arm came forward, and the rock thudded heavily on the cold earth. The boy was not discouraged. He knew the dog’s eyesight was not acute. As the sky darkened it would become more difficult to see what was thrown. The dog’s whiteness would be visible against the floor of the pit even in complete darkness.

  Carl picked up another rock and feinted a throw. Baxter jumped aside. He’s reacting to my motion, not to what I’m holding, the boy thought; he can’t see the rock. Another feint, followed by a quick second motion and release. The rock missed, but only by a few inches.

  As the boy reached for a rusted sash-weight Baxter charged forward and leaped towards the edge of the pit. He came within a foot of the top—closer than the boy had thought possible—but he fell back. It was the dog’s maximum effort, Carl thought. It has proved the futility of trying to escape. Another point scored.

  And as the dog fell on to its back, scrambling to regain its footing, Carl quickly threw the sash-weight. It struck Baxter’s ribs. No real damage was done; there hadn’t been time for the boy to put his full weight behind the throw. But a blow had been landed. Four more attempts; one of them successful. Blood showed on Baxter’s left flank, and he began to move more slowly than before.

  Carl’s supply of rocks had run out. As he looked around for more, his breathing was heavy and uneven. He had forgotten the meaning of what he was doing. He no longer thought in terms of death, but only of completing an action. Baxter was not the animal that had made the summer meaningful, the creature whose presence had been so reassuring and vivid to the boy in his bedroom on sleepless nights. The dog was only a target now; elusive and persistent, but impersonal.

  It had become more difficult to find suitable weapons. Carl began to throw whatever met his hands as he groped in the near-darkness. His aim became haphazard, and his strength diminished. It was difficult to tell what effect his attacks were having on Baxter. Carl had not heard the dog whimper or yelp, but he could see dark, glistening patches on its white coat.

  The boy wanted it to be over. There must be a better way. He turned away from the pit and reached desperately to the ground. His hand gripped cold, smooth metal. A handle. He was standing on the door of an abandoned refrigerator. That was better. Something large and inescapable. He raised the door. A tombstone, he thought, as he maneuvered it to the edge of the pit. The door balanced on its edge for a moment and then tilted away from the boy, swinging out into the darkness. And he felt himself being pulled with it.

  The handle had caught in the cuff of his jacket sleeve. He pulled back desperately, hearing cloth rip, but he was unable to keep his balance. His chest hit the ground, his head and his right arm extending over the space of the pit.

  As the door fell Baxter moved clumsily against the pit wall, no longer agile, but still strong enough to shake off the glancing blow of the metal slab. The door lay slightly tilted, forming a shallow-angled ramp. Carl’s arm dangled above. The dog moved up the ramp and closed his jaws on the boy’s hand, pulling him towards the floor of the pit.

  As Carl slid downward he reached out with his free hand, grasping for a hold to stop his fall. He found only the steel rod he had used to pry the stairs loose. He swung the rod wildly as he rolled down the ramp, striking out at Baxter in pain and confusion. In a moment the boy was on his feet, his right hand still gripped by the dog’s teeth.

  Carl swung the rod again and felt Baxter’s hold weaken slightly as the steel struck the dog’s spine. But the jaws tightened again immediately. In his pain Carl almost dropped the rod. They stood facing each other, the boy bent forward, trying to ease the pressure in his hand; the dog standing unsteadily; breathing with difficulty.

  This is my chance, Carl thought. My last chance, perhaps. Forget your body. Think. The dog is not the master. And then Carl knew what to do. He gripped the rod tightly in his free hand, and he spoke sharply:

  ‘Baxter! Heel!’

  For an instant the dog relaxed its grip; just for an instant and only slightly, but it was enough to allow Carl to pull free and raise the rod in both hands. He brought it down powerfully across the dog’s neck. Baxter staggered back slightly and then collapsed, his legs twitching. He watched helplessly as the boy lifted the rod again.

  2

  The pain has stopped, and I no longer feel the cool air against my body. But I know the wind is still strong, for it brings me the sounds and odors of the town with a strange clarity. And as I wait for death, I think not of the boy who stands above me, but of the others, living and dead, whose traces are carried to me.

  The odors are varied; differing from one another as much as the people themselves do. The old woman and the child: their scents remain in the dark houses, just as the odors of others cling faintly to the objects that surround us here in the circle. My scent too will remain.

  The sounds are distinct but muted. With the changing season, the people have shut themselves behind the windows of their houses. And as the days pass, the quiet will become more complete. Soon the first snow will come and there will be a moment, as the people of the town awaken, when the silence will be absolute. The people will be uneasy, thinking of the silence of death.

  Perhaps they will also think of me.

  Certainly some of them will.

  The boy will.

  3

  Jason Fine shone the flashlight into the pit.

  ‘Carl,’ he shouted.

  His son stood with his arms raised above the obviously dead body of Baxter. The boy didn’t seem to see the light or hear his name being called. He brought his arms down, striking the dog’s battered head.

  Jason jumped into the pit. An arena, he thought. A place for death; a man-made place . . . or boy-made. He took the rod from Carl’s hands. ‘It’s over,’ he said. ‘Are you all right?’

  The boy’s eyes showed no recognition, but reflected what Jason was afraid might be a kind of pleasure. He turned the light on the dog briefly. There was no need to check for signs of life. No animal could have survived the beating. Did any animal deserve it?

  ‘We’d better bury him,’ Jason said.

  ‘He tried to kill me,’ Carl said. He held his hand up to the light. Bruise marks stood out against the pale flesh, but the skin was not broken.

  ‘You’ll be all right. Let’s bury Baxter, then we’ll leave.’

  ‘He doesn’t deserve it.’

  ‘He’s dead, Carl. I’m going to bury him. You can wait in the car if you want to.’

  Jason climbed out of the pit to look for something he could use as a shovel. He cast the light beam across the piles of trash and broken objects. He remembered the cello. The boy is comfortable with destruction, he thought. He picked up a dented metal wastebasket and returned to the pit.

  Carl watched as his father worked awkwardly to dig the shallow grave. The boy’s hand rested on the rod he had used to kill Baxter. He felt pain, and realized his hand was tightening around the weapon. The dog was more important to him than I am, Carl thought. Baxter was a killer, yet he was loved. Why should that be? Maybe because he played the role of dog when it was to his advantage. Subservient, obedient. The boy’s hand relaxed. It was not the time to show his resentment. There would be better times; subtler ways.

  When the burial was finished Carl went to stand with his father b
eside the grave. I must show him I can cry, the boy thought. Think of Baxter, he told himself. Remember the battered, pathetic body. But he felt no grief; only a sense of relief and triumph.

  He wondered when he had last wept. What had angered or frustrated him that much? Perhaps if he remembered it, he could weep again. But there was nothing to remember. He would have to get along without tears. He picked up the flashlight from the ground where his father had rested it while digging. He shone the light on the loosely packed dirt of the grave.

  ‘I’m sorry, Baxter,’ he said.

  And he embraced his father. When had he last done that? Maybe at the time he last wept. It was too long ago or too unimportant to recall. I must do it more often, he thought. It’s appreciated. ‘I’m sorry, Dad.’

  Jason held his son tightly. The dog’s death had served some purpose after all. Carl had learned something important.

  Five

  Snow had begun to fall during the night.

  Mary Cuzzo awoke uneasily. She was still learning how much she had come to rely on her father’s presence in the house. He hadn’t been an active or a noisy man, yet for years the small sounds he made as he moved about downstairs in the morning had comforted her. He had always been up before she had, thumping and scraping. The sounds became familiar, but the activities that caused them remained a mystery­.

  She wondered why this morning’s silence seemed deeper than usual. Then she understood: it extended beyond the house. She opened her eyes. There was also something unusual about the quality of the darkness. It was not yet dawn, but the silhouettes of the furniture stood out distinctly against the walls. Was there a full moon?

  She went to the window. A thick layer of snow glittered on the sill. Outside the street light glowed with an unusual brightness, casting a brilliant circle at its base. The snow was still falling, tempering the darkness. Now that she stood close to the window, Mary could hear the occasional delicate skittering of flakes against the glass. There was no other sound.

  She thought of her father’s grave. She would go there today. The last time she visited the cemetery, the mound of still-settling earth had offended her. It had seemed so heavy and oppressive. The grave would look less forbidding under the delicate snow; under the whiteness.

  Wasn’t white the color of mourning in some countries? That’s how it should be everywhere. She thought of how attractive the women always seemed in their black dresses at funerals. White was better: cool and lifeless.

  Then the silence was broken by the distant barking of a dog. Mary remembered Carl Fine’s white dog. What had become of it? It had been so much a part of the town during the summer. She had envied the uncomplicated affection that the boy and the dog seemed to share. Her father had tried to teach her to dislike dogs as well as affection. He hadn’t succeeded. He had taught her only the need to have someone or something dependent on her. Now that she was alone, maybe she could keep a dog.

  She tried to imagine what it would be like if a dog were in the room with her now. It would be standing close to her, eager to follow her downstairs to the kitchen. She liked the idea. Where could she get a dog? Carl would know.

  2

  Queenie barked excitedly as she ran through the yard, breaking a looping path in the fresh snow. Joseph Bartnik watched her from the kitchen window. She’s happy, he thought. He knew that since he had taken the puppies from her the dog was happy only when she was away from him. But that didn’t matter. What mattered was that she still obeyed him. Happiness was not something that he required either of her or of himself.

  The pursuit of happiness. He had never understood how that phrase got into the—what was it?—the Constitution? Life and liberty he understood, but the pursuit of happiness must have been the thought of someone’s wife. A man wouldn’t have thought it that important. It’s women who pursue happiness, and it takes them away from us. He thought of his wife and daughter.

  Veronica lay half awake, listening to Queenie’s barking. She could hear the gentle clinking of the dog’s name tag against its collar. The sound reminded her of something: something unpleasant. Then she remembered. Carl Fine had begun to wear some sort of chain around his neck, and as he sat in class at school he touched it occasionally, producing a soft clinking sound.

  Carl would not tell her what had become of the puppies or Baxter. He smiled at her each day and called her Eva. And he walked alone through the streets of the town, looking at curbs and bushes.

  Veronica didn’t want to share the town with him. She would leave soon: after the first snow, she told herself.

  3

  The silence will be broken soon, Jason Fine thought. We’ll hear the scraping of a shovel against the sidewalk and the whining of tires against packed snow. He went to the bed and touched Sara’s shoulder.

  ‘It’s snowing,’ he said.

  Let it please her, he thought. There had been little pleasure for her lately. Carl had embraced her and apologized the night of Baxter’s death, but as the boy clung to her she had stared over his shoulder at the wall, her brow wrinkled. Jason couldn’t be sure what she had felt, but he knew it wasn’t pleasure­.

  ‘Sara. Come and see the snow. It’s beautiful.’

  Sara had not been asleep. She had been grateful when Jason got up and went to the window. He was a noisy sleeper. It frightened her to hear the air being forced through the complicated channels of his nose and throat. She sometimes had to wake him up, afraid that he was choking. It was quiet now. She liked silence. It was the most eloquent part of music: the rests and the pauses that defined the notes.

  There was a great deal of silence in her life now. Sometimes in the afternoons she would go to the closet and look at the mutilated cello, but she couldn’t bring herself to touch it. It reminded her of Carl, and she tried not to think of him. His new deference and affection were unacceptable to her. It was like having another dog around the house.

  She had preferred Baxter.

  4

  Nancy Grafton was making an angel. She lay on her back, spreading and closing her outstretched legs; pushing her arms in twin arcs through the moist, thick snow. She looked up into the darkness, her mouth open to catch the falling crystals.

  She and John had come directly from bed out to their front lawn, pulling on old clothes, and not bothering with breakfast.

  She’s like a child, John thought, as he stood watching her. A happy child. He tried to remember when her happiness had begun to return. He wasn’t sure. Maybe it was when Carl Fine began to appear on the streets without Baxter; when the boy told them the dog was dead.

  John reached down and helped Nancy to her feet. They looked at the impression she had made in the snow. An angel. John had never liked the idea of angels. He couldn’t believe that death was like that. It frightened him to think that Nancy’s body had made the shape that was before them in the darkness. A Dark Angel.

  ‘Now you make one,’ Nancy said.

  John hesitated. ‘Men don’t do that.’

  ‘Do it and I’ll tell you a secret.’

  John lay down in the snow next to his wife’s angel. His body recoiled from the damp coldness immediately. For a moment he was motionless, his eyes closed. He thought of graves. Then he moved his arms and legs; quickly, eager to stand again.

  When he returned to Nancy she was smiling. And as they looked at the two angels in the snow, she took his hand and said, ‘I’d like to have another child.’

  EPILOGUE

  Carl Fine stood at the bedroom window of the Prescott house. The afternoon sun glinted on the melting snow, throwing into relief the two strange shapes in the Graftons’ front yard.

  Soon he would hear the couple’s automobile approaching. He thought of the night he had stood in their bedroom. He remembered the woman’s scent; a subtle, sexually exciting aroma. He had seldom been as happy as at that moment.

  He heard the sound of their car approaching. It pulled into the driveway, and for a moment there was life on the block. He could see
curtains being pulled aside as neighbors looked resentfully at the couple. The street was soon quiet again. Carl stayed at the window, staring at the couple’s house.

  What are they doing now? he wondered. He knew what the rooms looked like, and he knew generally how they lived, but that was not enough. He wanted to be there with them. He wanted to be close to them; to go into the bathroom after they had bathed. The steamy air that had touched their bodies would envelop him. He would reach into the hamper and lift out the clothes that were still warm from those bodies.

  But he would not be able to do that. Instead he would go to his own home and sit at the dinner table with his tired, common­place parents. He would eat the carelessly prepared meal, and he would go to his room, leaving them to sit silently before the television set.

  Carl stared unblinkingly at the windows of the Graftons’ house. He could see them moving from room to room. He heard their laughter. His parents never laughed any more; they were stolid and dull, the boy thought. I have a strength and knowledge that they have never known. I must use that strength and knowledge.

  What would become of me, he wondered, if my parents were to have an accident? What if one night, as they slept, their uninteresting house were to fill with smoke and flames? It could happen quickly . . . too quickly to allow escape or rescue. A few neighbors and I would stand helplessly in the cold darkness while ashes formed and mingled. What would become of me if that happened?

  The young couple would love me. I’m certain of that. They see the possibility of love everywhere. They saw it in Baxter. They’ll see it in me.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Ken Greenhall was born in Detroit in 1928, the son of immigrants from England. He graduated from high school at age 15, worked at a record store for a time, and was drafted into the military, serving in Germany. He earned his degree from Wayne State University and moved to New York, where he worked as an editor of reference books, first on the staff of the Encyclopedia Americana and later for the New Columbia Encyclopedia. Greenhall had a longtime interest in the supernatural and took leave from his job to write his first novel, Elizabeth (1976), a tale of witchcraft published under his mother’s maiden name, Jessica Hamilton. Several more novels followed, including Hell Hound (1977), which was published abroad as Baxter and adapted for a critically acclaimed 1989 French film under that title. Greenhall died in 2014.