It Ain’t the Dead You Need Fear

In the hills surrounding Slippery Ridge, West Virginia, politics is personal. So is death. No one’s surprised that some kin just don’t go gentle, no matter how dead they are. And folks thereabouts—even dead folks—don’t take kindly to no one doing mischief to their stock, cows and horses and such, but ‘specially dogs, who naturally are people. Of sorts.

Her farmhouse sat atop one of the accordion-folded ridges north of town, village really. No matter the season, wind whistled through loose slats and under weathered eaves. Sometimes she thought the house was alive.

She had heard the talk, someone killing dogs, putting their heads in plastic bags, left on doorsteps. Come dawn, the full horror smacked the owners in the face. That’s why, most times, she kept Barney in the house with her. That way they both felt safe.
After a long day at work, feet throbbing, she longed for bed but held back. But it felt too silly to use the sofa. Besides, where would Barney sleep?

Not until she got to the top landing and dragged toward her bedroom door did the cold envelop her like a shroud—even in summer—and no AC.

Tonight no light! she thought, but she kept the bedside lamp on High-Alert Kilowatts. Barney thumped down beside her, whacked his tail back and forth, then yawned as only a collie could, his mouth like the Grand Canyon with teeth.

Through the open window, the roar of a car heading north dwindled into a soothing, disappearing hum, leaving only insect lullabies from surrounding fields. Barney maneuvered his back against her side until satisfied that all was just right. A contented rumble escaped his half-open jaws.

“Quiet, Barney.” She hugged his great ruff. “Maybe tonight will be better.”

Their breathing settled into a rhythmic harmony.

From the adjacent room, dark as a tar pit, plaintive whispering seeped through the sliver of opening between the door and frame. “Baaarrrneey. Baaarrrneey.” A faint aroma of funeral bouquets filled the room.

Barney whimpered then shook, legs pumping, off on one of his dream runs. She held her dog,
“Barney!” she scolded. “Go to sleep. I’m so tired.”

Unheeded calls to Barney dwindled into a fretful moan. As the intended audience slept on like half-dead prisoners in a tumbrel heading for the guillotine, the whines grew angry. A seeming sentient wind swirled through the cold room. Dust flew then settled back into deathly slumber. Stacked and toppled furniture creaked. The vibrations pressed against thin walls, wafting peeling wallpaper, its coiling images faded into dull blotches.

She tossed on the lumpy mattress and flipped on her side. Through the pillow she pulled over her head she thought she heard, “Ellllieeee . . . Ellllieeee . . . ELL! IE!!” Barney’s whimpers broke into yelps. Loathe to open her eyes, Ellie dismissed the cloying odor of carnations and lilies but ducked well under the covers.

The spectral will inhabiting the next room grew anxious, its need acute.
Distinct knocks “One! Two! Three!” reverberated against the walls, the furniture, the door, and out to the chilled hallway.

Barney growled and leapt from the bed. He guarded the door’s threshold and peered into the dark. His ruff bristled.

Ellie bolted upright, her heart thumping against her clammy breasts. Sweat drenched her sweatshirt and fleece pants. She squinted against the light of the 350 watt bulb, hot and doing its job. Her ears strained against the cold silence. Did she hear knocking?

An overwhelming sensation of putrefying greenery gagged her.

Desperate to make contact, the otherworldly dweller screamed, “Get out! Get out!”

Ellie leapt from the rumpled bed. “Com-on, Barney! Let’s go make pancakes!”

She felt for the hall light, hit it on the run, and lumbered down the stairs. Barney followed in a full grinding growl that drowned out the final plea.

He’ll kill your dog.

L. N. Passmore

 

L. N. Passmore bids you to come visit Lisnafaer and her other green worlds.