Some days are worse than others.
I’ve been alive for a long time. Too long, it feels like.
I’ve buried a wife, killed my own kin, and served as Death’s right hand since I killed my mother in the kitchen when I was ten.
She deserved it. Hell, she would have killed me if I hadn’t stopped her.
Still, the deaths weigh on me.
I haven’t slept since I delivered Michael Dunwich’s heart to the god and sat with her as she ate it raw. It wasn’t the manner that she ate or the simple fact that she ate the damned thing; it’s that I’m not done yet.
Not with those who tried to bring my mother back.
They’ve gone to ground, and I’ll ferret them out, of course, but the world is gray today.
A storm has rolled in off the Atlantic, and it’s hidden the sun the whole day. The rain that fell earlier was cold and unforgiving as the ocean, and there’s been some sign of merfolk in the river again.
They’ll be hunting soon, and I’ll need to chase them off just as soon as I finish with the bastards at Miskatonic.
There’s no doubt I was feeling low, and I suspect I would have just gone home to get good and drunk if I hadn’t seen the dog.
I was sitting out in front of the Cross Library, smoking my pipe and considering whether I wanted beer or whiskey for dinner when the dog came along the sidewalk and saw me.
He was a Boston Terrier, and he stopped in front of me. He tilted his head to one side, his tongue lolling out, and his short stump of a tail beat the concrete with a fierce and cheerful rhythm.
The sight of him caused me to smile, and his tail wagged all the harder. I called to him in a soft voice, and he stood up and trotted over to me. He sat down by my side and snorted with pleasure as I scratched between his ears.
We sat there for a good hour with nothing more pressing than breathing air. Then, with a final wag, the dog stood up, shook himself, and went back the way he’d come.
I suspect he was headed home.
It was a fine idea.
#fear #horrorstories #paranormal