DOG

Author: Mark Boutros

A man who's been carrying a secret for over 35 years decides it's time to tell his side of the story, but on confronting the dark summer that changed his life, he lets old demons back into his life with terrifying consequences.

I’m finally going to share my story. I’m not even sure I want to, but I feel like I have to. I haven’t told anyone what happened for over thirty-five years. I was only fourteen and nothing made sense. I’m forty-nine now, and with all the time I’ve had to think, it still doesn’t make sense. I guess I hoped that by never talking about what happened that it might make it less real, or make the whole thing disappear.

I didn’t even talk about it when it happened. Even during the conversations, I wasn’t so much quiet as I was absent. People had shouted in my face but my mind was blank, numb and empty. But, as this is the last night, I’m going to be alive, I need to share my side of the story. It’s not out of bravery or some desire to change. It’s because I’ve lost, and my story is my final fuck you to whatever caused this tragedy. I don’t care what happens to me after this.

Who knows what I could’ve made of my life. It was on the horizon, glistening under the sunrise full of options and possibilities. I loved physics and would’ve probably pursued something in that. Sure, forty-nine isn’t exactly the end of my life, but I feel as though the sun is setting on that horizon, and on it is nothing but death and decay.

I drag a plastic chair away from the kitchen wall and place it facing the steel counter. I sit and take a breath, cracking my fingers back to loosen the rigid joints. I shuffle in the seat, but it seems to have been deliberately designed to create discomfort.

Everyone read about what happened in the newspapers, heard about it on the radio and saw the pictures on the TV, but nobody ever got my side. They didn’t need it, because of what they saw when they found us. Any time I felt like talking about it my throat tightened and burned, and my heart thumped. Evil’s hand grabbed my neck and squeezed until the words were crushed. It wanted me to be the only one who knew, so I could suffer alone.

I came close to telling my aunt, Jaz. All the words were in a letter, but something compelled me to tear that letter up and flush it down the toilet before I could send it. I even had a documentary maker visit, excited to be the first to get my story, but I sat there in total silence and stared at the poor kid, probably traumatizing her. Whatever force was at play teased me, letting me think I had control over what I was doing, then it reminded me that choices didn’t exist.

Last I heard Aunt Jaz died of cancer. For her, the last thirty-five years were a series of ailments until her body just gave up. It’s hard to tell what’s true or false when it’s all second or third-hand info.

I look up at Danny, a young man so relaxed from his hair to his toes that I’m amazed he’s ever awake. He hangs his chef’s apron on a hook behind the kitchen door and turns to me. “If you’re gonna talk for long, keep the phone plugged into the charger. Battery’s crap so it’ll die on you in about three minutes.” He runs his hand over the immaculate kitchen counter as though there’s some dirt still there. “I’ve been meaning to get a new phone, but the fuckers cost more than rent. Fuck London.”

I chuckle. “Thanks, Danny. I appreciate it.” He’s a good man. Deserves a lot better than being in here, cooking for and serving people who don’t appreciate the importance of what he does.

He takes his jacket that’s draped over a chair. “You remember how to send the video, right?” He hands me his iPhone.

I’m glad I never had one. There’s too much going on in my head to have just as much going on in my hands. “Yeah. Once it’s recorded, I open the message, write the number in that bit at the top, press the photo icon that opens your photos and choose the video. Then I press that arrow that sends it up.”

Danny chuckles. “Yeah, you send it up.”

I take the glass of water from the steel worktop and have a sip. I haven’t eaten all day and the water swims through my body as though it’s cleansing the rusty pipework. My hands tremble so I clasp them together.

“And what else?” Danny asks.

“Don’t eat any of the food,” I reply.

“Yes, that. Though I’ve made you a couple of sandwiches for when you’re done. They’re on the bottom shelf. A farewell surprise.” He nods, pleased with himself. “I was thinking the more important ‘anything else?’”

I raise a finger, remembering. “Don’t look through your photos. Unless I want to see things I can’t unsee.” I smile.

“Exactly. What people do in their spare time is their business.” Danny takes the keys to the kitchen from his pocket and has one last look around the room. “And once you’ve sent it, delete the video. I don’t want to feel compelled to watch it.”

“Thanks, Danny. I remember how.” I stand up and shake his hand. “You’ve been a good friend.” He half smiles. I think I’ve made him uncomfortable. Perhaps being acknowledged as a friend by me is seen as a bad thing, but I mean it. Danny seems like someone who understands pain. Sometimes you can just tell by the way someone looks at you, or the tone they use with you.

He walks towards the door. “When you’re done, leave the phone in the charger. Then lock the door and slide the keys under it. I’ll head back after I’ve been for a few drinks and get everything.” Danny scratches his cheek and opens the door. “Good luck, Ray. I’m sad to see you go, but I’m obviously happy for you. I hope things work out.” He turns and closes the door.

Things will work out, just not how he imagines they will. I go and lock the kitchen door from the inside. I don’t want anyone to interrupt me and my audience of none. The air feels heavy, suffocating. I’ve held onto this for too long.

I walk over to the pile of boxes Danny placed at the ideal height for me to film from and lean the iPhone against the five-liter can of olive oil, unlocking the phone with Danny’s password. His year of birth, 1991. I switch the choices on the camera to video and press the icon with the arrows in a circle so it shows me. My face on the screen makes my heart heavy. Is it the effect of the screen or are my eyes that lifeless? I see a wasted life, buried beneath fear and confusion. Could I have done anything differently? The lone thick black hair on my head is the only thing of my past that hasn’t packed up and run away. It’s a reminder.

My finger moves towards the red record button but I hesitate. What am I hoping to achieve with this? I don’t really know, perhaps peace. Perhaps acceptance. It doesn’t matter. I need to share what happened. But keeping quiet has served me well these decades. Why risk it? What if it comes back? I don’t care.

“No turning back,” I tell the air, hoping if it’s listening it knows I mean business. I press the button a bit too forcefully; knocking the phone down so put it back in place. It’s recording.

I walk back to the chair and my body feels not so much lighter, just empty.

“Hey Becca, remember me? Your cousin Ray?” I shake my head. “That’s a stupid question, of course you do. What I mean is, remember the me you knew as a kid before that day? Not the one from the news.” My voice cracks and my mouth is already dry. I take a sip of water and lick my lips. “I hope life’s been good to you and you got to become a vet like you wanted.” I smile at the camera, wishing I’d looked after my crooked teeth better. 

“I want to tell you my side of things, because I want to answer questions you might have. You might not even have any. Maybe you don’t even give a shit. But if you do, I’ll try. I might not be able to answer them all. I haven’t been able to answer a lot of them myself, but I hope it helps.” I slump in my seat, already exhausted. The air gets colder and I fold my arms.

“As you know it was summertime in 1986. Mum and Dad loved to have their yearly trip to Avebury, near Stone Henge, while I dreaded it. They loved that Avebury had the largest megalithic stone circle in the world. I still don’t know what megalithic means. I think it’s just a more powerful word for unnecessarily big. I’m not sure and I don’t really care.” I shrug.

“People think the place contains psychic traces of ancient people and times. And there’s no end to the ghost stories. From a lady in a white hood who haunts Avebury Manor, to a rock that crosses the road at midnight. Sounds fun but it’s far from it.” I gaze into the kitchen corner then back at the camera. Bringing up ghosts makes me uneasy.

“Mum and Dad would swarm like flies with other weird-minded people to sit in the center of the stone circle to meditate. They’d try to suck in this invisible energy and they’d go and touch the big stones. I never quite got it back then, being a kid. But what was so empty in their lives they had to try to fill themselves with something invisible? It was as though they hoped whatever they needed would be carried to them by the wind, or transmitted through a rock. I found it so weird. So desperate.” I sit up straight.

“Looking back, I feel like they were tricking themselves, believing in something they couldn’t see, hoping it’d bond them, because there was nothing else tangible apart from me. I don’t think I ever even saw them kiss each other.” I scoff, feeling slightly guilty, because they probably would’ve gone their separate ways if they didn’t have me. I trapped them. I run the back of my hand over my forehead to wipe the sweat.

“I hated them for wasting my summers. I was a kid. I should’ve been spending the holidays playing football with friends or falling in love with girls who had no interest in me. Instead, Mum and Dad dragged me away from any chance I had at a normal kid’s life. I tried to be part of groups during term times, but Dad didn’t like the kids at my school. He’d say the parents had negative energy and that it was likely transmitted onto their child. Sometimes Mum would come by the school early to take me out of it. I thought it was because she wanted to spend time with me, but it turns out it was just to get me out of school sooner. Only reason I was even in school was thanks to Grandma insisting they send me. Thank fuck she existed. Rest in peace.” I kiss my fist.

“So, while kids bonded during the most important years of their lives, I stood in a field with a bunch of old folks and touched cold rocks. The biggest crime a parent can commit is to make their kids prefer being in school to being on their summer holidays.” I take a breath. This is weighing me down and the resentment towards my parent’s bubbles, but also a deep resentment towards myself. I’m blaming myself for their problems again. But it pisses me off. I was a fucking kid.

“We always stayed in a barn a few hundred yards outside the stone circle. I showed you photos of the barn once and you said it looked like a place old people die in. It was stuck in some forgotten era and didn’t even have a TV! There were about twenty houses on the road, all backing onto fields, and yet we spoke to nobody from any of them. We got funny looks off the neighbors a few times, but that was about it.

“I’d spend the days walking around the barn looking for anything to capture my imagination. During the nights I wished I could be magically teleported back to London so I could have the life a kid should have. It would’ve been okay if I could play with the other kids, but my parents had an ability to make us repellent to anyone that didn’t fit their criteria. With another kid I could’ve had a great time in those fields, but instead, I’d have to talk to flies and whatever creatures I’d find crawling around. One summer I spent three hours talking to an ant in my room.” I shake my head at the ridiculousness of it. “That was the best part of the holiday!”

“I wished you and Aunt Jaz could’ve joined us, but you were both smarter than to waste your summers.” I stop for a moment. My heart clenches. I don’t know if it’s glad I’m finally talking about this, or trying to eat itself. 

“Some nights Mum and Dad left me alone. They’d go off into the fields and do whatever they did with the other energy hunters. I sometimes heard chanting and caught the flicker of candlelight in distant fields.” My neck muscles tighten. “Hold on, Becca.” I worry I’m not alone. I get up and grab a cleaver from its hook on the wall and place it by the chair, out of camera shot. Not that it’ll do any good. I sit back down and feel slightly safer. 

“I’d count the minutes in my room. It had nothing but an old wooden bed, an oak bedside table and a single window. The window faced out onto the endless fields. There was also a wardrobe built into the wall, but I preferred to keep my clothes in my suitcase. I don’t know what it is, but something about wardrobes built into walls scares me. They’re more like doors to a neglected place as far as I’m concerned. I made sure my suitcase blocked it as well.

“A lot of the time I’d stand in Mum and Dad’s room and stare out of the window into other houses where families sat together. They were homes filled with smiles, togetherness. I’d end up walking around this barn getting freaked out by noises that old houses make. It was as though the barn was talking to me through its creaking. Probably telling me to stop stomping so heavily, or to wipe that bit of jam off the precious wooden floor.

“I looked everywhere I could for any sign of fun. Only thing I found were tools - a shovel, a hatchet. I took a torch and kept it with me in case the lights went out. Once, I got so bored I used a screwdriver to take a chair apart, just so I could figure out how to put it back. I did manage to find an old book under the sofa, The Magic Cottage by James Herbert, but Dad took it off me and threw it away before I could even open the cover. He’d tell me, ‘You don’t need someone else’s imagination to entertain yourself when you have your own.’” I shuffle in my seat. “He had this weird idea that other peoples’ imaginations pollute your own, diluting your clarity of thought and messing with your energy, somehow killing its purity. It’s safe to say Dad was a moron.” I poke my fingers into my lower back, wishing I could be bothered to stretch in the mornings. But even with so much time, it was the last thing on my list after - sit, nap and stare at the wall.

“Anyway, you get it. I was bored, my parents shouldn’t have been together and they shouldn’t have been parents. I’d complain, cry, beg, but they weren’t going to let me go home. About three weeks into this six-week hell, I tried to walk all the way back to London. I got about a mile into it before night descended over the nothingness. It was all flat fields and the occasional tree. The silhouette of a horse or something appeared in the distance, but it was perfectly still. It was the strongest case of the chills I ever got, so I turned and ran back to my summer prison. I don’t think I’ve ever run faster. I decided the only option to get through summer was to try to get into the energy nonsense.” That same chill attacks the back of my neck so I rub it.

“I remember the day clearer than anything else in my life. It was baking hot. The kind of heat where you take a shower, dry yourself, and then instantly sweat again. The day was weird from the start. I woke up with a burning in my mind, like something was broken and I didn’t know how to fix it. I cried that morning for no reason other than I couldn’t not cry. All I wanted to do was go back to bed and sleep until the summer was over.

“I dragged my heavy legs down the creaky barn stairs and my dad packed the picnic basket. He was on his knees rolling his meditation blanket methodically and gently. I felt like he cared about that blanket more than he cared about me. He wiped his long hair away from his face and smiled up at me. The bright light caught his face and made him look more welcoming than he had in a while. ‘Are you ready to feel the buzz?’ He clenched his fist and the tiny muscles on his weedy arms became more pronounced.” I mimic the gesture to the iPhone.

“Dad looked happier than I’d ever seen him. No idea why. It’s nice to think that, though, isn’t it? That sometimes people can be happy for no reason. Makes it feel like it’s possible to be happy more often if there’s no reason attached to it. He stood and straightened his t-shirt, then came and gave me a hug. I almost burst into tears again. For a moment he felt like an actual dad, rather than someone just playing the role of one when he thought he had to.

“Mum was smiling too. She’d tied her dark hair back and wore a bright blue dress that stopped at her knees, like she used to when we’d go to my grandma’s on weekends, before Grandma died. Mum always wanted Grandma to see her looking her best, so that Grandma wouldn’t worry. Mum still had a hint of worry in her eyes, but that seemed permanent since the day her and Dad came back from hospital and she was no longer pregnant. I didn’t realize the severity of it back then.”

I take the biggest breath I have for years. I’m not sure I’m ready to confront the next part. I glance at the cleaver.

“Sorry,” I tell the iPhone, as though Becca might actually watch this video and not instantly delete it. I rub my temples and steady myself. I take another sip of water.

“We went to a field together, as a family, like the families I’d seen in the houses. The grass was green in patches, and flattened and duller where people stepped on it around the rocks. Beyond the rocks a tiny hill cut out the distant view, likely just more fields. That’s all this place was, fields, stones, a pub that claimed to be haunted, and shops where people sold smaller colorful stones. If you weren’t in Avebury for the stones, then you were likely an alcoholic or lost.

“Even in the sweaty heat, it was pretty windy. Probably because the trees were so far apart. Maybe they knew about social distancing well before our time.” I chuckle to myself, but notice my face fall on the iPhone screen. I don’t have the right to joke with Becca.

“Mum and Dad got straight to stone touching. Both pressed their hands-on opposite sides of the rock and stood there with their eyes closed. So. Damn. Boring. I watched for what was about ten minutes but felt like ten years. Dad patted the stone like it was a pet. ‘You ready to try?’ he asked me. I falsely smiled and walked over to the giant stone. It was pretty impressive to see something so big. But that was about it, it was impressive. I had no need to spend time with it. I pressed my palms against the cold grey stone and pushed, trying to eek out whatever was supposed to be inside it.”

I hold my palms out open to the iPhone. I mime pushing against a rock, my fingers tensed.

“Mum and Dad asked me if I felt the energy. I genuinely felt nothing; just annoyance that my hands were touching something hundreds of other people had touched, probably without washing their hands. I concentrated, imagined colors in my mind, begged for something, but I felt absolutely nothing. I started to wonder whether I was lacking something and if I was the one with the problem. ‘Yeah, it feels kind of fuzzy,’ I lied. I took my hands off the stone and opened my eyes. Mum and Dad smiled. ‘It’ll take time but that’s a good start, Ray,’ Dad said. Mum’s smile was bigger than when Ms. Molloy told her I was the best pupil she’d ever taught.

“I figured I may as well carry on lying throughout the day. Touch a stone, say it’s warm. Touch another stone, say it made my neck twitch and my head lighter. I hoped it’d make time speed up. Eventually we sat and ate our picnic, thankfully. Dad had made those coronation chicken baguettes you loved when you’d visit. I even remember the bread being that perfect, spongy softness that we always hoped for when we’d go to the bakery. Even though the day was dull, at least it felt like we were a family. Mum and Dad even took an interest in what I had to say, for once.

“I told them about a computer game a kid at school claimed he could get early versions of from Japan. It was called Castlevania and was due out in September in Japan, but not in the UK until 1987. It was about a vampire hunter who has to kill Dracula in his castle. Dad hated the thought of me playing computer games and he worried that games would make me lazy. Mum seemed a bit more open, though. ‘Maybe for your birthday in January we can talk about you having some games.’ She shrugged at Dad who shook his head.”

I scratch my nose and rub my neck. Something about talking to a camera makes me tense. I like feeding off peoples’ reactions, but all I can see are my own and I don’t like them.

“Do you remember that Christmas we came to stay with you and we played Duck Hunt all night? That’s what this conversation with Mum and Dad reminded me of. They were letting me be a young, and they seemed to like me that afternoon. It felt like we could be friends, not just family. I guess the trade off was showing them I could be what they wanted in a kid by pretending to feel the energy.

“But sadly, our bonding was ruined by some other energy hunters. ‘Laura! Benik!’ a nasal voice called out. I turned to the source and a guy in his early twenties who looked like he hadn’t had a haircut since birth walked towards us. He wore a vest to show off his developing arms, and shorts way too wide for his stringy legs. It seemed all of his exercise went into the upper half of his body. He was flanked by two girls styled out of the same catalogue, who wore gowns that likely swept up every piece of dirt from the grass.

“Mum’s eyes lit up and she bounced up to her feet faster than a released spring. She hugged the man she called Lucas, while Dad was much slower to stand and shake Lucas’ hand. He greeted the two girls, Paula and Larissa, who nodded at him like he was a teacher. They shook Mum’s hand from as far as their arms would extend. Chat turned to energy.

“I stared at the few clouds to busy myself. I made out an ostrich, a shark, and a creature I made up. I called it a Bagdola. The Bagdola was big as a tree, arms like a bear, and could eat stones. I imagined it eating all the stones in Avebury, and then we might not have to come here anymore. Mum and Dad talked to Lucas about things like ley lines and entities, and then Lucas showed them a little white hexagonal box. It had circular mirrors on the sides and a dial on the top with a compass. Lucas said there were magnets in it. Apparently, it helped people to balance out their energy. All they had to do was hold the box out in front of them. I imagined the Bagdola could pick Lucas up and throw him miles away, then boot the box into the nearest river.

“Mum didn’t hesitate to grab the box of pointlessness, and that’s where it got way too boring for me. So, I got up, dusted the baguette crumbs off my shorts, and told Dad I wanted to go and explore. Anything was better than watching people stare at someone holding a box.”

The strip light on the kitchen ceiling flickers. I look up as though my eyes will do anything, but the flickering continues. I reach for the cleaver and place it on my lap, out of camera shot.

“Dad told me to stay within the rock circle. To be fair, that was a pretty massive area, and he wanted me to be back in a couple of hours, max. So off I walked, away from the boredom and into the unknown that was also likely to be boring. I walked around the outer part of the stones, thinking I’d do a lap and see what caught my eye.

“It got busier towards the Tolkien trees; apparently inspiration for the Ents in The Lord of the Rings. People tied ribbons to the wishing tree but a frog distracted me. I dropped to my knees to pick it up but it leapt away. ‘Do you want me to follow you?’ I asked it, and it leapt away, so I took that as a yes. It jumped away out of the stones and up the tiny hill on the outskirts of the stones.”

The light stops flickering and dies. I’m sat in darkness, so I stand and take the iPhone. I unplug the charger.

“Sorry, Becca.” I lean against the sink and put the cleaver down on it. I stand in the streak of moonlight streaming through the window bars. I turn the tap on and fill my glass with water then take a sip. I turn the tap off and plug the charger in and hook up the iPhone. I’m a bit silhouetted, but it doesn’t matter.

“I obviously followed the frog. Who cares that it was outside the stones? It was all fields and over the hill that seemed more like a swollen speed bump were more fields. If it was a spooky wood, I would’ve never followed the frog, we know how that stuff tends to end! But I could still see the stones from where I was and it was all so open and sunny.

“I followed the frog for a few minutes, into longer grass up to just above my knees. The frog jumped, but this time it vanished. I looked around, confused and worried that I’d been imagining this frog, such was my boredom. But I took a step forward and my heart leapt back in my chest so hard it knocked me back onto my ass. I crawled forward and there was a pit, about a grown man and a half deep, and the same wide.

“I couldn’t see the frog but a dog as dark as soot stared up at me. And I swear, Becca, this was no normal dog. It had the shape of a normal dog, like a Great Dane, but there was something missing. First thing I noticed was that it looked sad, forgotten. And it was damp, but I don’t know with what. It was almost slimy.” I rub my thumb and forefinger together. “I stood up and took a step back. The dog oozed the stench of an old bin bag full of rotten food, and that horrible choke-inducing smell you get when people burn sticks in their gardens. I retched and swallowed a bit of vomit, not wanting to throw up into the pit and onto the thing. It gave me that feeling you get when something gets into your chest. Know what I mean? As though if I had a soul it was trying to break out of my body to run away.

“The dog had these bony legs, like they’d been squeezed, and the muscles just hung off it. The nails on its paws were broken too. But what hit me the most was how expressionless it was. There was something off, like it wasn’t real.”

I choke up. I’ve never spoken of this dog since that day and I worry it’ll somehow appear right in front of me. I place my hand over the cleaver handle and run my eyes over the corners of the kitchen.

“But it was real, Becca. It stared right at me. Its eyes weren’t like the dogs we know though. You know how Turbo looked at us with curiosity and playfulness? This dog’s eyes were black all over. There was a hint of orange behind them, like a dull flame in the dark, but it was all so numbing. The skin on my left forearm itched uncontrollably and I raked my nails up and down it. I wanted to rip my forearm off and throw it away.” I mime scratching down my left arm and remember how deep my nails went.

“I called out to the dog, hoping to get a reaction, but it just stared. I wanted to leave it, but even though it looked out of this world I kind of felt sorry for it. I asked it, ‘What’s your name?’ Nothing. It didn’t look like it had a collar and I couldn’t see a way for it to get out of the pit, thankfully. I looked around for an owner, but it was just me and this dog.

“The frog seemed okay though. I spied it by the dog’s back leg. The frog jumped around, trying to get out of the pit, and that’s when I saw something I could never have imagined, Becca.” I bite my bottom lip and the pit of my stomach burns.

“The dog, in a flash twisted its head to near a hundred and eighty degrees. A barbed tongue stretched out of its mouth, grabbed the frog and pulled it into the dog’s mouth. The dog turned back to me and stared, expressionless, frog’s blood on its lips.

“My body never felt so weak. I inhaled my shock, turned to run and fell face first into the turf. Grass and dirt went in my mouth and nose. I scrambled back to my feet and bolted, pulling grass out of my teeth. I was too scared to turn around but imagined the dog leaping out of the hole and speeding towards me to take a chomp out of my calf, or worse yet, neck.”

“I got to the top of the small hill and turned back, relieved to see nothing. I nearly cried and I saw that my blue shorts had a darker pool of blue where I’d pissed myself. I looked towards the stones and everything on this side of the hill was back to comforting and boring. I took my t-shirt off and tucked it into my shorts so most of it hung over the piss-stain.

“I returned to my parents and whispered to my dad that I’d found a dog in a pit and what it had done. I hoped that we would get the dog taken away by someone so I\d know it wasn’t lurking. ‘Are you making stuff up again?’ Dad asked. But I think he could see how scared I was, so he stood up. He glanced towards my mum for acknowledgement, but she was sat leg-to-leg with Lucas, discussing that stupid box. ‘Show me where,’ Dad said, and we walked to the long grass.

“When we got there, we couldn’t find the pit. ‘Are you sure you saw anything?’ Dad asked, frustrated. ‘I swear I did,’ I told him, and then he looked down at my shorts and must’ve seen a bit of the piss stain under the t-shirt. He huffed. ‘Right, go home and change.’ He shook his head at me like I was a disappointment! I asked him to go to the barn with me, but he said he couldn’t, because he had to get back to my mum. At the time I didn’t realize, but it’s obvious now he was going to keep an eye on that slimy shitbag, Lucas.

“So, I walked back to that miserable barn alone, terrified that a hell hound was going to leap out at me. All I wanted was for my dad to be a dad in that moment, but he didn’t care. I didn’t want to be spoiled. I just wanted to be more than an inconvenience.”

I clench my jaw and slump to the floor, holding the iPhone as far away from my face as the charger wire will stretch and with the cleaver by my side. I’d take my anger out on the boxes of onions if I wouldn’t have to clean it all up afterwards. 

“I got back to the barn and washed some bits of grass off my teeth then showered. A nasty acidic taste hung in my throat. I was scared that every time I turned my head that I’d see that dog. Thankfully I didn’t. I closed the curtains in my bedroom and went to sleep. It was about four o’clock in the afternoon. I hoped when I woke up it was the next day, and some part of me didn’t want to wake up at all. I feared that if I opened my eyes, I’d see the dog standing on the end of my bed, it’s broken nails digging into the duvet and that barbed tongue aimed directly at me.”

I swallow, not knowing how much more I can share. It’s all too raw, even thirty-five years later. My body seems ill equipped to deal with all the sensations running through it and I fear I might even piss myself right here.

“When I woke up only a couple of hours had passed. The sun poked beneath the curtains, but I had no interest in it. I turned to the wall away from the window and closed my eyes. I tried to think of happier times, like when our families went camping on the beach in Cornwall. Do you remember Dad being cocky about how he could put up a tent faster than everyone else? Then the wind blew it into the sea and he had to run in after it.” I laugh, and it feels good. “Those are the memories that have kept me going all these years. I just wish there were more of them.

“Happier times gave me some renewed hope that this summer wasn’t going to be total rubbish. All it would take was one great moment to lift everything.

“I tried to sleep again. But then something scratched at the door. I hoped my mind was messing with me and I covered my ears with my pillow and buried my head under the duvet. But it got more frantic, like something was desperate to get in. The tighter I covered my ears the worse the scratching got! ‘Go away!’ I yelled, falsely brave. I stared at the door as the scratching persisted. ‘I’m not letting you in! Leave me alone!’ I sat up and reached across to the bedside table, opened the top drawer and took out a pen.” I shake my head. “What the hell was a pen supposed to do? I guess I thought it might be enough to put up a fight.” I clench my fist at the camera.

“The scratching sounded all around me, as though something was trying to scratch its way through my skull and deep into my brain. This was an invasion in my senses. I rubbed my temples but it only hurt and I dug my nails so deep into my head I felt blood. ‘Pissoff!’ I yelled and leapt out of bed. The adrenaline hammered my body. I charged at the door, the pen now held up by my head, ready to stab the foul creature.”

I hold my fist up to the screen in that stabbing motion from that day.

“I opened the door and shouted, only to see Dad stood there, pale as a sheet. The energy flooded from my body and I fell to my knees and dropped the pen. I sobbed and my dad sat by me and pulled me into a hug. He didn’t say anything, he just hugged me.”

I unplug the iPhone from the charger. I can’t sit still anymore so I pick up the cleaver and pace the kitchen. I hate the darkness, so I open the fridge to get some light into the room. I check all the corners and keep the cleaver out of sight of the camera, but close to me.

“I curled up on the sofa in the living room and watched Dad chop pieces of wood with the hatchet. The sofa had that old musty smell, as though dust had won the battle and the cushion covers would never recover, but it was somehow comforting. I wondered how many invisible bugs lived in the cushions and pictured a civilization of bacteria at war for territory.

“I stared at the fire, numb, hoping the flickering would calm my mind. The mind plays horrible tricks, though. I was sure I saw the fire form into the expressionless face of the dog. ‘If there was a dog and it was damp, you’d see the paw prints or some dirt from its feet, so you’ve nothing to worry about, Ray,’ Dad said.

“The sun had set and Dad chopped the last piece of wood. I nodded. What he said made perfect sense, but it didn’t matter. ‘We’ll give your mum another twenty minutes and if she’s not back we’ll have dinner. He looked at the clock on the wall – 9:45pm. His shoulders slumped. At the time I thought it was from all that chopping wearing him out. I sat up on the sofa. ‘Can I stay with you and Mum tonight?’ I asked.

“I expected him to say ‘yes’ instantly. But there was a ‘but’. That was the problem with this family, there was always a ‘but’. I could stay in their room, of course I could, but he needed to meditate for an hour first. He said I’d be welcome to sit and watch him, though, but that I’d have to be completely quiet. I really didn’t want to be alone, so when Mum didn’t show up we ate and then I watched my dad sit still and take long boring breaths.”

I plug the iPhone back into the charger and scratch my chest. It’s itching for some reason, maybe the polycotton from this horrible green boiler suit, but it feels deeper.

“I watched Dad for about five minutes and I tried my best to remain perfectly still, but I coughed. That’s all it took, one cough. He didn’t even open his eyes. He asked me to leave the room and said he’d come and get me when he was done. I couldn’t believe it. He’d seen me shaken, disturbed, terrified, but all he wanted to do was re-align himself or whatever the fuck he was supposed to be doing. I stomped out of his room, making sure to slam every door and clatter whatever I could on my way. I got to the door to my room and froze. My heart stopped dead. A little mound of soil was perfectly placed in the middle of my doorway. It smelled of bins and burning. I called out for Dad. ‘Dad there’s soil! The dog, the dog!’ But he didn’t respond.” I rub my forehead.

“I sped down the stairs, leapt over two at a time and I ran to the chopping block and grabbed the hatchet. I crept back up to my room, my chest rising so high it nearly touched my chin. I was ready to swing through that dog’s expressionless face. But the pile of dirt was gone. I entered the room and checked every drawer, every crack, even the terrifying wardrobe, and then slammed the bedroom door shut.

“I buried the hatchet under my pillow and opened the curtains to close the window in case the beast could leap through the narrow crack. I tried to avoid looking out onto the dark field, but one flash across the emptiness was enough. Far in the field, silhouetted against the darkness, the outline of slimy fur caught in the moonlight. That’s what I saw that night I tried to walk back to London.

“I shut that window and pulled the curtains across. I leapt into bed and gripped the hatchet. I grabbed the torch from my bedside table and shone it around the room, corner to corner, praying I didn’t reveal the dog. I’d never been so awake, so alert. I hoped Dad would come and get me once he had finished meditating, but he never did.”

I put the iPhone down a moment to scratch the backs of my hands.

“I kept the torchlight moving from corner to corner. I don’t know what time it was, but I heard the front door close and footsteps. Then something smashed and my heart pounded. Armed with my hatchet, I walked towards the door and opened it a crack. Mum was back and she picked up pieces of a vase she’d knocked over. She swayed towards the fridge, the back of her dress covered in grass stains like she’d slid down a hill. I knew better.”

I raise an eyebrow to the iPhone screen.

“She took a bottle of wine from the fridge, sat on the sofa and stared at the wall. She pulled the strap of her dress back over the right shoulder and drank straight out of the bottle. I caught a glimpse of Mum’s face and her mascara was all over it.

“Every muscle in my body ached and I felt dull all over. I dragged myself into bed and turned the torch off. I put my head against the pillow and gripped the hatchet like it was my favorite childhood teddy bear. For a moment I wanted to stick the hatchet through my own face, but instead I cried. I was suddenly exhausted and fell asleep.”

The hot feeling in my chest is overwhelming. “Hold on Becca. I’ll keep talking but I need to get something.” I put the iPhone on the floor and walk to the freezer. I open it, grab a tray of ice, take some cubes and wrap them in a kitchen cloth. I unzip the top of my boiler suit and press the cloth to my chest and take deep breaths.

“The next morning at the breakfast table was just cold. Mum’s head was down the whole time and the stench of alcohol and regret poured out of her. And Dad’s meditation must have not worked, because everything he did had a little bit more aggression to it. His fork hit the plate a little harder, he’d take a sip of juice and hit his glass against the table rather than place it. We were only eating omelets, but he cut it like he was trying to saw a piece of wood. I hadn’t even touched my food. My appetite was lost along with my desire to live.”

I walk back to the sink and sit in front of the camera again.

“I could barely keep my eyes open. I woke up about fifty times that night, sweating, shivering, and having muscle spasms. I was beginning to feel like my body was no longer my own and I was really irritable. Dad was chewing his food like he always did, you know, fucking slowly. It was like that time we had those homemade pizzas. We’d finished ours and he was still chewing his first slice.” I mimic how Dad used to chew, slowly moving my jaw like a camel, chewing out of the left side, then the right side. “It was like he was trying to dissolve the food in his saliva before he could swallow it. This time, though, I didn’t find it funny. I wanted to take the bread knife and slit his throat.”

I raise a hand as though pleading my innocence. “I hated thinking that, trust me. I didn’t even know I could have that thought. Maybe it was the lack of sleep. It scared me a lot. I wasn’t seeing him as a father anymore.”

I’m done with the cloth, so I take it out of the boiler suit, rest it on my lap and zip the boiler suit back up.

“Dad told Mum what happened the evening before. ‘He was acting weird yesterday,’ Dad said. He, like I wasn’t sitting right there. He wouldn’t look at me. Mum finally looked up to glimpse my face. She turned back to Dad. ‘Maybe you should take him on your walk today.’ That was her solution, to work me into one of their activities, not to do something for me. I scratched my fork against my thigh, trying to distract myself from getting angry.

“Dad stood up. ‘Why don’t you take the kid? Or are you worried it’ll stop you being as free as you can be?’ He pushed his plate off the table. The smash made me jump and the omelet slapped against the wooden floor. Dad stormed up the stairs to their room. Then Mum threw her fork after him and followed him while chucking out every swear word she could think of.

“She slammed the door to their room behind her, and all I heard at that point were muffled shouts. I should’ve been sad or angry, but it was weird, Becca. I was almost catatonic. It was like I couldn’t emote in that moment. Or my heart and my mind wouldn’t let me. I didn’t even notice I’d pushed my fork so hard it’d ripped through my shorts. 

“I thought I may as well eat, just to fill the silence. I cut only a tiny section of the omelet and placed the forkful into my mouth. I chewed but I couldn’t taste the egg. And the texture, it changed with each bite, from soft to rough. Rough like the grass I’d gotten a mouthful of the day before, but it was tougher. The more I chewed the tougher it got, and one bite released this hellish taste of rotten chicken, and a smell of rubbish and burnt sticks filled my face. My eyes watered and I retched.

“I fell out of my chair and coughed up this black slime. Something tickled the back of my throat and I reached in to pull it out. I pulled a stringy, black, slimy hair out of my mouth. Then another. And another. They kept coming and filled my throat. I tried to shout for help through the choking, but the muffled shouting in Mum and Dad’s room drowned everything out. I pulled hair after hair until a pile the size of a cat was by my head. I looked around for that damned dog, but there was nothing. Why was it tormenting me? ‘What do you want?’ I yelled. But I was alone, shaking on the floor.

“I caught my breath, got up and poured as much water as I could down my throat and spat the foul taste into the sink. I swept up the hair and put it in a plastic bag, so I could show my parents. I walked up the stairs but stopped half way. I listened to more of their muffled shouts. Something smashed and I realized I didn’t want to tell them, because they didn’t care. I dumped the plastic bag of dog hair in the bin and went to my room. I sat and stared at the wall, waiting for one of them to reluctantly take me with them.

I wipe my hand across my nose. It’s getting colder in here. I touch the radiator but the heating is on. I grip the cleaver and check the corners.

“Later, I walked through a field with Mum, but she didn’t say a word. This was the most pissed off she’d ever looked. I reached my hand out, hinting that I wanted to hold hands, hoping she’d take it. I caught her glance at my hand, but she ignored my invitation. My heart couldn’t take any more, so I just came out with it.”

I slap my chest with each word. “Do you regret me?” I shake my head.

“In a flash and with the coldness of the stones she loved to touch, she simply said ‘no’. That kind of question should hit someone deeply! It should make them think, not about their answer, but about why someone is even asking such a thing!”

I notice I’ve pressed the cleaver into my right thigh. I move the cleaver away and put it back on the floor.

“That question should’ve hurt her. Why would I feel so low that I needed to ask this? But she just said no, didn’t look at me, and we walked on.”

Tears creep into my eyes and I take a moment to dwell on that scene. “In that instant, my Mum became Laura and I became nobody. I don’t remember the rest of that walk, but we got to a house and that prick, Lucas answered, smelling like he had a stick of incense burning up his arse.

“Mum ushered me through the house to the back garden. There was a tennis ball, and thankfully the fences meant I couldn’t see any fields. Mum told me Lucas was going to do some healing for her and left me out there. Then they locked the door from inside and off they went. Three hours I stood in that garden kicking the tennis ball, alone. I had no drink even though the sun shone right on me, and I had to piss in the corner of the garden. I knocked on the glass door at one point but was left ignored.”

I rest my head against the wall and take a breath. The tears stream down my face. “Have you ever felt like you didn’t belong in this world, Becca?”

I get up and pace the kitchen again, trying to scratch the discomfort out of my left forearm.

“Back at the barn that evening, I sat in my room to the soundtrack of Mum and Dad shouting at each other some more. I imagined the rest of our lives. Would we go back home and become a happy family? Would I ever have any friends? Would Mum and Dad stay together or divorce? Who would I live with? Would I live with either or would they give me up? It seemed more likely they’d give me up. I started to think that I was wrong to think of myself as a trap, keeping them together. They didn’t give enough of a shit about me to think of me as a trap. They were trapped by laziness, and not wanting to start from zero.

“I couldn’t sit here anymore. I hated them, but I also loved them. I wanted this to work. I wanted to make more good memories to push the bad ones out. I decided to make them feel the love I hoped was still somewhere. I snuck out and I sat by a rock in one of the fields. It was six o’clock and I expected they’d notice I was missing in an hour when it was dinner time, worry and then come to find me. Then when they found me we’d have a family hug and at least feel a moment of togetherness. That’s all I wanted. That feeling would be enough to tell me we mattered as a family. That I mattered as a son.”

I stretch my legs out. My knee pops.

“But they never came. Eleven o’clock and nothing. Just me sat among the stones I hated in total darkness. I cried and I cried. I felt a slight chill and rubbed the goose bumps on my arms, but then was compelled to scratch my left forearm. I scratched and scratched, dug my nails right in until bloody lines formed. I stood up and I pounded the stone, wishing I could topple it. I kicked it, spat at it, swore at it. It took my parents, and now it had the blood from my fists.

“Defeated, I turned to go back to the barn of misery. At the end of the field there was the dog, silhouetted in the perfect darkness. The slimy sheen rose and fell with its breath.”

I start to tremble and my voice quivers. I place the cleaver in my lap.

“That dull orange I’d seen in its eyes before, it was more of a fire now, and this time the dog walked towards me. That fucking walk, it was rigid and bitty, like its limbs were breaking out of a stone casing. But the thing is, you can’t scare someone who no longer wants to be alive. I shouted at the thing. ‘Fuck you!’ And I walked towards it. It didn’t run away, but it backed away, and I followed. Its stench hung in its path and I pulled my t-shirt over my nose.

“I was so angry. I called it all sorts of names. Before I realized, we were in the long grass and it jumped down into its pit. I looked down on it, that expressionless face, and I kicked some dirt onto it.

“It didn’t even react. It felt nothing. I kicked more dirt onto it. I dug my hands into the soil and threw it in the dog’s face. Still no reaction. It was numb. It was just a shell, walking the earth emptily. I shouted for it to leave me alone. I wished it would choke on the soil.

“I threw a stone and it was a great shot. Right in the dog’s nose, but it didn’t even react to that! I threw pile after pile of soil on it. It must have been hours and I’d barely covered its paws and I was exhausted. ‘Leave me alone!’ I begged. ‘Just leave me alone, please…’ It just fucking stared and I screamed into the sky. All the pain inside me came flooding out.”

I lay on the floor of the kitchen and aimed the iPhone down at my face. My eyes were red from the tears about to burst through.

“Then I stopped looking at this dog like it was my enemy. I pitied it. It was rejected, living in a pit, misunderstood and ugly. Numb to feeling. My eyes stung and the burning I felt in my stomach became fiercer. I sat and swung my legs over the side of the pit and I jumped in. The stink no longer bothered me. I inhaled it.

“I extended my hand and the dog came and sniffed it. The dog opened its mouth and that nasty barbed grey tongue stretched out. It was like a snake and it wrapped around my arm all the way up.

“The barbs didn’t sting; they comforted me and made my body warm. I stroked the dog’s slimy head and it retracted its tongue. The scratches on my arm were healed.”

I wipe the tears out of my eyes. “I know it sounds fucked up, Becca, but it’s true.” I check the corners of the kitchen.

“I pulled dirt down from the pit wall to give myself a way to climb back up, and I took the dog. He was coming with me and he was going to be the family pet. For some reason I though a pet would replace the lost little brother or sister I was supposed to have.

“We must’ve got back to the barn around two in the morning. I walked in and Mum was passed out on the sofa, two empty bottles of wine by her side. There was dried blood under her nose and the fire crackled. ‘I got us a pet,’ I told her. But she was out cold.

“The dog sniffed her and then followed me up the stairs. I went to my room and took my trainers off, then went to see Dad to tell him the good news. I opened the door to his bedroom and it was a mess. Clothes, a broken lamp, a drawer smashed on the floor. Yet somehow, at two in the morning, he was sat on his mat meditating! ‘I got us a pet,’ I said, and I noticed the blood on his lip and clumps of his hair on the floor.

I roll onto my side. My energy is completely gone.

“He didn’t give a shit though. ‘I think you should say hi to him,’ I told Dad. But he cleared his throat. ‘I’ve got a lot I need to process,’ he said. ‘Go back to bed and we can play whatever game this is tomorrow.’

“I stared at him. I couldn’t believe he wouldn’t even look at me. Then, without warning, the dog opened its mouth, swung its head and lashed its tongue half way through Dad’s neck. Dad fell sideways and his blood pooled the wooden floor. The dog retracted its tongue, looked down at Dad, then swung its head back and lashed its tongue up and down, beheading Dad. With its fucking tongue!”

Coldness washes over my body. I can’t quite believe the words myself.

“I didn’t even try to stop the dog. I was paralyzed. The dog stared at me and I worried I was next, but he ran out of the room. I chased him and got to him right as he took a bite of Mum’s face. He twisted and chewed and when he released her, the left side of her face was a fleshy mess, her eye squashed and bloody. I collapsed to my knees and screamed. But the dog took chunks out of her shoulder, her chest, her waist, and her legs… Fuck… When he was done that wasn’t Laura lying on that sofa. I held her but I couldn’t even grip her, it was all blood.”

 I run to the kitchen bin and throw up. I sip some water and face the iPhone again.

“I swear it, Becca. I didn’t do it. I looked back at the dog and he was gone. I don’t remember anything after that. But from the police reports, I’ve been told they found me sat on the sofa, my mum’s destroyed body in one arm and my dad’s head in the other. They say the bloody hatchet was on the floor. But the dog must’ve put it there.

“I never told them it was the dog, because I was so traumatized. I barely believed it myself. I thought maybe I’d gone mad. Maybe I did do it. But I didn’t. I know I didn’t.

“The police searched the entire place and I hoped when they found the dog hair in the bin they’d ask more questions, but they never found it. Just a plastic bag full of spat out omelet.”

I try to stand up but I collapse and sob onto the floor. I’m holding the iPhone but I don’t even know where it’s pointing anymore.

“I didn’t do it, Becca. I swear it. The dog did it. The dog did it.” I look up and see it in the corner. I haven’t seen it in thirty-five years. I throw the cleaver at it and scream. It disappears but the smell of bins and burnt sticks remains.

My breathing calms and I look at the phone, still recording. The one black hair on my head shines with sweat. “I’m sorry, Becca.” I stop recording.

I take a piece of paper from my pocket and type Becca’s number into the phone. I attach the video. This is it. I’ll send the video, go back to my cell, and tomorrow when I’m released, I’ll kill myself. I’ve been thinking about the best way for a while. I tried hanging myself in my cell, but the makeshift rope was shit and it failed. I’m going to jump off one of those bridges that let people cross over motorways.

My thumb hovers over the send button. Why do I want to torment Becca? What is this going to do? It’ll only hurt her. She’s moved on, let her live in peace. I put the phone on the kitchen counter and scratch my arm. She’ll only think I’m even crazier. I’m overcome with shame and I delete the video.

I look to my right and the dog is next to me, staring, expressionless. I put my arm around it and stroke it. I bury my tear-covered face into its slimy fur.

I get up and place the iPhone in the charger on the counter. I open the fridge and take out the sandwiches Danny kindly made - coronation chicken. I wolf them down, nearly choking. I walk over to the cleaver, pick it up and put it back on the hook. “I’m sorry, Danny,” I tell the air. I wish it could be different, but I can’t wait until tomorrow. I have no control over what I’m doing.

I grab the chef knife from its hook and thrust it into my neck. I don’t even feel it. I’m numb. I collapse onto the floor and my blood flows into my fading eye line. The dog approaches, sniffs my blood and licks it. It faces me, expressionless, but then the fire in its dead eyes explodes. It opens its mouth and wraps its jaws around my head.