by
Al Bruno III
Something stirred beneath four and a half feet of frozen mud and snow. It was a rage so profound that even February's cold couldn't dim it. Instinctively, Patches began clawing her way toward the moonlight. It was almost like being born again.
She had been the strongest of her littermates, the first of six to find the teat, open her eyes, and notice the tall, pink figures looming over her mother's pen. Again and again, they would pick her up with soft, careful hands, cooing and tickling her. She couldn't help but wag her tail, eagerly licking their faces and fingers.
Now, in the darkness of her shallow grave, Patches felt a pang of sorrow for the loss of her mother and siblings. She could still remember her mother's scent, her steady breathing, and the spots on her fur—so like her own. Back then, eating, playing, and running through the grass with her siblings had been her whole world.
That contentment ended when the other Tall Ones came for her.
At first, they had intrigued her with their unfamiliar smells and constant attention. She especially loved playing with their child, chasing and being chased. His laughter—a sound that was neither quite a squeal nor a growl—had thrilled her. When they put a collar around her neck, she thought it was just another toy.
By nightfall, she was bundled into a cage lined with newspapers and a strange-smelling blanket. Before she could protest, they drove her to her new home.
The memories goaded her to dig. Dirt and snow filled her mouth, choking her howls. The earth clung to her greedily, sucking at her limbs. They had taken so much from her. In the end, they had taken everything.
Despite her initial fears, Patches adapted to her new life quickly. The Tall Ones had roles, just like her own kind did. The male was "Dad" or "Danny," the female was "Ma" or "Shirl," and the boy was "Billy." Everything had many names—even her.
And she was "Puppy" or "Doggie," but mostly, she was "Patches." It felt good to have a name. It felt good to belong. They became her pack.
For a time, Patches knew only joy. There were always treats and pettings to be had. She lay on Dad's feet as he stared mesmerized into his box of colored lights. She raced across the yard, chasing squirrels and the occasional bird. She walked with Ma, reveling in the wind and the symphony of scents it carried. And she played with Billy until they both collapsed from exhaustion, falling asleep with her nestled under his bed.
Yet there were moments of pain. Blows rained down on her when she messed on the floor or chewed the carpet.
"No! Bad! Bad! Bad! Bad dog!" they would shout.
She learned the rhythm of their voices, and as the summers passed, she got better at following their odd rituals. But some of the rituals didn't make sense. Occasionally, they fed her from the table; other times, they swatted at her for begging. Still, more often than not, Patches only knew contentment and joy—afternoons spent lying in the warm beam of sunlight coming through the windows or the rush of love when Billy came home, kneeling down to scratch her behind the ears. They had their strange ways, but they were still her pack.
During their lazy games of fetch, Patches sometimes froze mid-run, her eyes drawn to the tree line. Something was there. Something terrible, yet familiar. The feeling had always been with her, hovering at the edges of her world.
Time passed, one summer after another. Then, changes began. The voices of her pack began to grow louder and angrier. No longer was she allowed on the soft couch. They would yell at her when they found her there, luxuriating in the warmth and smells. The voices of her home became louder and angrier. Then Dad began to hit Mom, and Mom started to hit Dad. It happened more and more until one night, it turned into something far worse.
And when the moment came, she acted the only way she knew how. Dad had been in the throes of his dark madness—the madness that always seemed to be brought on by the sharp-smelling water he drank. Billy tried to run—he'd almost made it. He was young and strong, just on the cusp of adolescence, but he stumbled and fell. His father was on him, lifting him by the throat, shaking him like prey.
Billy had been like a littermate to her. He fed her, played with her, and soothed her. Patches did the only thing she knew—she growled a challenge. She bared her teeth.
The man dropped Billy and turned on her with a kick. It struck her belly, stealing her breath. She staggered, trying to recapture the bravery she'd felt moments before. His fists came next, a blur of fury and pain. For the first time in her life, Patches thought she might die.
"Fucking dog! Growl at me?"
"Dad! Leave her alone, Dad!" Billy's voice cracked with desperation.
The blackness came so fast that Patches didn't even realize she'd blacked out until she woke in the barred cage they'd brought her here in long ago. She was in the basement, a damp place with smells she'd never liked.
Time crawled by in the cage. It was too small—she couldn't stand or turn around. All she could do was lie there and wait. She watched the grass flutter in the breeze from the basement window and wondered when they would come for her.
That night, alone in her misery of hunger and lingering bruises, Patches caught a strange odor—burnt earth, iron, something unplaceable. Her hackles rose as she realized it was the thing from the treeline. The Terrible Thing.
She barked a cautious warning, and when no one answered, she barked a dozen more times. The sound set Dad storming down the stairs. He kicked the cage with each bellowed word.
"Shut up! Shut up! Shut up! Do you hear me? Shut up!"
When his rage was spent, he stormed back upstairs, slamming the door behind him.
A few hours later, she lost control of her bladder, even though she knew better than to mess inside the house. She soiled the cage three more times before Ma and Billy finally came. They cleaned her, cooing softly as they washed the filth from her fur and fed her scraps of food. Billy took her outside and wept at the sight of her limping across the yard. As the sky began to darken, they put her back in the basement, back in the cage.
That became the pattern: locked in the tiny cage every morning and night, with only a few hours of freedom in the afternoon. The shouting and thudding from upstairs grew louder each day.
If she made even the slightest sound, Dad would storm down the stairs, yelling and striking the cage. She could feel him trying to break something inside her—the part of him that was already broken.
Her isolation dragged on. In desperation, Patches gnawed at the bars of the cage, tasting blood as her teeth scraped against metal. On warm Saturday mornings, Billy would take her for short walks, and she longed for them to never end, to keep walking, to never turn back. But they always did.
Her time outside grew shorter as the days passed. Ma started to carry the scent of the sharp-smelling water on her breath. Billy changed, too. His voice deepened, his step grew heavier, and he began to swagger in a way that made her uneasy.
Fall turned to winter, and Patches' world grew colder and smaller. They forgot to let her out for days, and she started soiling her cage again. Ma would groan and call her a "bad dog." Billy would mutter, "Dammit, Patches," then call for Ma. Worst of all was when Dad found her mess. His rage would explode. He'd drag her out of the cage and shove her nose into it, yelling all the while.
She began to cower at the sound of footsteps on the stairs. She flinched at raised hands. Dad seemed to take pleasure in her fear. "Not feelin' so tough now, are you?"
After that, they let her out of the cage at night, but she was still confined to the basement. Billy visited less and less. Sometimes, they forgot to feed her, and her water grew stale and warm. When she barked or whined for attention, they banged on the floor above her, shouting for her to be silent.
The miserable routine dragged on until her body began to betray her. One day, Patches couldn't keep food down anymore. Instead of pity or comfort, her sickness earned her beatings and scoldings. Even Billy struck her now. "Stupid dog! What the fuck is wrong with you?"
No matter how hard she tried, her stomach would heave violently, the acid burning her throat. Her strength drained with each day, her ribs pressing painfully against her patchy coat. Patches barely had the energy to lift her head, but she could still hear them arguing upstairs.
"The dog is sick," Ma whispered. "There was blood in her puke this time."
"Maybe if you stopped hitting her—"
"Don't talk to me like that! I never wanted the damn mutt anyway. Maybe if your idiot son walked it—"
"Fuck you!" Billy shouted.
"What did you say to me, you little shit?"
Patches heard a scuffle, then doors slamming. After that, silence.
That night, Billy came down to the basement. Patches wagged her tail weakly, too tired to lift her head. He didn't speak to her. Instead, he put the collar around her neck and clipped on the leash. Patches let herself hope. Maybe this time, they were going for that walk that would never end.
Billy led her up the stairs, past Ma sleeping on the couch. The cold air hit her like a slap when they stepped outside. Dad was waiting for them, a long, dark stick in his hands. She sniffed at it curiously, but its scent told her nothing.
Billy led her into the woods, and Dad followed behind them. The trees were thin, their bare branches clawing at the moonlit sky. Snow crunched underfoot as they ventured deeper into the night.
The forest smelled strange. Beneath the crisp scents was a darker undercurrent, the foulness that had always waited and lingered in the woods near her home. It was watching.
Even now, despite everything, instinct drove her to warn the pack that had once loved her. She growled, but the sound was thin and hollow. She tugged at the leash, desperate to make them understand. Instead, she felt a sharp kick to her side. Pain flared, but she barely noticed it. The Terrible Thing was near. Why couldn't they sense it?
"Do we have to?" Billy asked, his voice barely more than a whisper.
"You gonna be a pussy your whole life?" Dad snapped. "It's just a damn dog."
"We could take her to the vet," Billy said, his voice tight, almost pleading.
"A vet? You got two grand lying around for some worthless mutt?"
Patches kept staring into the treeline, her ears flicking slightly when the dark stick came up. Its thick end rested on Dad's shoulder, the smaller end leveled at her.
The first crack of thunder hit like a hammer. The impact knocked Patches off her feet, pain tearing through her side. It missed her heart but ripped into her guts, leaving a burning heat that spread through her fur. She tried to stand, but her legs wouldn't listen. Her gaze found Billy's, wide and pleading.
"She's still moving, Dad!" Billy's voice cracked, sharp with panic.
"Shut the hell up. I'm trying to aim."
The second crack hit below her throat. A searing wave of pain exploded through her. The world blurred red, then faded to black. Blood flooded her mouth. Cold crept into her limbs. Above her, the moon hung distant and indifferent.
"There," Dad said. "That's done it. Go to the garage and grab a shovel."
"But she's not—"
"She will be. Now get a damn shovel before I put you in the grave with her."
The grave they dug was shallow, the frozen ground resisting the dull blade of the shovel. Dad cursed with every scrape of metal on ice-packed dirt, his breath fogging in the freezing air. Billy stayed silent, his movements jerky and uncertain.
When they dumped her body in, it landed awkwardly, limbs bent unnaturally. They shoveled dirt over her in hurried, careless strokes. A patch of her face remained uncovered, the fur matted with blood, but neither man seemed to notice—or care.
Then they walked away. If they had looked back, they might have seen it: the glint of an exposed eye staring out of the dirt. It's gaze followed them, unblinking—a silent curse. And somewhere in the woods, the Terrible Thing heard it all the same.
And it moved like smoke out of the shadows, formless and unrelenting. It churned above the grave, festering with a heat that twisted through Patches muscles and took root in her bones. Patches curse was repeated back to her voicelessly.
Instinctively, Patches began clawing her way toward the moonlight. It was almost like being born again. Memories goaded her to dig. Dirt and snow clogged her mouth, choking her howls. The earth clung to her greedily, sucking at her limbs.
When Patches tore free of the grave, freeing her snout and bloodied jaw, Her nose emerged. Then her skeletal frame, soil, and blood rendered her unrecognizable. She stood, legs shaking at first but growing stronger. Her eyes burned with a black fire. They smoldered.
The Terrible Thing had retreated back to its hiding place but had seen to it she would never rest. And it had left her with other gifts as well.
Patches raised her head and howled.
The forest answered her cry. The night stirred, shadows taking shape around her. Birds with broken wings, unlucky rodents, forsaken pets with matted fur, and even a human woman—her form gaunt and brittle from some cruel misfortune—emerged from the dark. Patches welcomed them all.
In that moment, Patches realized they did not serve the Terrible Thing. They were the Terrible Thing, and very soon, they would unleash themselves upon the world. They would spread like a tide of rot and ruin, infecting the world around them, adding to their numbers, and tearing the cruel world to pieces.
But not yet.
Her eyes turned back toward what had once been her home, the place where her betrayers lived. Slowly and purposefully, Patches began to make her way towards it.
Her new pack followed her.
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