By J.F. Pringle
Clayton winced as he examined the wound on his ankle. Blood oozed out of the punctures and lacerations inflicted by razor-sharp fangs belonging to the mangy, black dog eight feet below him. The murderous thing growled and barked between occasionally leaping up and snapping its jaws just inches from Clayton’s legs. He covered his wounds with the torn, baggy jeans and leaned back against the walnut tree trunk, maintaining balance on the girthy limb upon which he sought refuge.
“Fuck,” he whispered. He stared at the large beast, about the size of a big German Shepherd. It was a mixed breed of some sort—like a cross between a blue heeler, chow, and husky. Its eyes were a striking amber color that never looked away from Clayton. “Ugly ass mutt.”
The dog untiringly and aggressively circled the tree until the hot, summer sun finally began to set. To get his mind off his thirst, Clayton used his pocketknife to cut off a nearby twig and throw it. “Fetch!” he said. The dog snuck a glance but went right back to barking at the boy. “Why don’t you be a good dog and fuck off? Go on! Get!”
“Doesn’t look like he’s gonna let up anytime soon,” said a man with a Southern drawl. It came from the direction of the nearby house. Through the foliage, Clayton could barely see the boots of someone swaying slowly on an old rocking chair.
“Thank God! Please sir, I need help,” said Clayton. “Your dog bit me and chased me up here.”
“My dog?” said the man. “I’m afraid you’re mistaken. That’s not my dog. My dog is much smaller. Less aggressive too. But you knew that already. Didn’t you?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, sir. I just need help. Please!” said Clayton with a cracking voice.
“Oh, but you do know what I’m talking about,” said the man. “My dog—the beagle. Ring a bell?” Clayton grimaced his sweaty face and tugged his greasy, black hair by the roots.
“Fuck, alright! Ok, your dog is a beagle. Now can you please just help me?”
“Charlie,” said the man.
“What?” asked Clayton as he released his hair finally, eyes squinting above his gaunt, freckled face. He shook his head in frustrated confusion.
“Charlie—the name of my dog.”
“Charlie is your beagle’s name. Ok, I get it. It’s not Charlie that I’m worried about, sir. This fucking dog is trying to kill me!”
“Charlie was my beagle’s name,” said the man. “He’s dead now…died from a head injury…from the rock you threw at him last week. That’s why you’re here today. Because you thought you’d find Charlie tied up to that tree you’re in.” The man laughed hardily. “Bet you didn’t expect that son of a bitch! Did ya’, Clayton?” The boy’s eyes got big.
“How does he—?” whispered Clayton before calling out. “I don’t know who Clayton is or anything about your dog, sir. I just need help. It won’t stop…stop bleeding.” Clayton began to cry. “Please sir!” There was no response. “You still there?” He searched and found the man’s boots still nudging the patio deck, rocking the chair back and forth. “Sir?”
“You know exactly what I’m talking about, Clayton.”
“I’m telling the fucking truth!” said Clayton with a frustrated jerk. The sudden movement caused the tree limb to crack and bow slightly. He scrambled to his belly to keep from falling. But his hand slipped off the branch and dangled just as the dog leapt and snapped its jaws. Clayton retracted just in time, its amber eyes glinting a foot away from his face. “Fuck, man!” Clayton sobbed.
“Liar,” said the man. “Tell the truth and maybe I’ll help.”
“I’m telling you the truth, please,” said Clayton, whimpering.
“Doesn’t look like that branch will last much longer,” said the man. “Ever since you pulled that fat boy off of it. What did you call him? Greg? Yes, that’s it—Greg was trying to get away from you and climbed right up that tree onto the same branch. He was crying just like you, too. Scared as hell.”
“That fucker stole from me!” said Clayton. “I just wanted it back.”
“Is that all you wanted, Clayton? You tormented him at first, like you did Charlie. Used the walnuts on the ground and pelted his fat body until he slipped. Then you jumped up and grabbed him and yanked him down. That’s when it happened. That’s when the branch cracked. You probably didn’t notice. You had other things in mind…looked around…felt alone. So, you pulled your thing out…made Greg do things to it…even threatened him with that little knife as the blood matted his blonde hair.”
“Please, just help me. I’ll never show my face here again. I swear!” said Clayton.
“At first, just to humiliate him. I admit. I got a kick out of how he choked and gagged,” said the man. He mimicked the sounds then chuckled. “You started to like it, though…made him do other nasty things…then you did things to him. In fact, that’s how I got your name.” Clayton began to feel lightheaded. His head spun as he tried examining his wounds which were still bleeding—the flesh around it, pale and cold.
“Please, mister. I’m begging,” said Clayton. “I think…I-I’m dying.”
“That’s what the little fat boy Greg said. Remember? ‘Clayton please. I’m begging you. Stop’. He begged and begged for you to stop but you only stopped when you were done.” Clayton drooled as he cried. Everything swirled around him.
“I admit it…” said Clayton. “Just please help me. I’ll never do anything bad again. I swear.”
“Too late, I think. Take a look at your little friend there. I’ve never seen a dog do that. You?” Clayton looked around but didn’t see it until he looked right below him. Oddly, the beast looked more muscular and was using its legs to shimmy up the tree trunk.
“Go away, you freak!” said Clayton. The man on the patio laughed as he stomped his foot.
“I don’t think he’s gonna listen, Clayton!” The boy managed to turn around on the limb and back away from the trunk. It began to bow. “Better be careful or you’ll end up falling! Haha!”
He kicked at the dog but missed and almost lost his balance. The tree limb cracked loudly and began to bow lower. “Shit! Fuck!” said Clayton. The hound was almost to him, but the boy didn’t dare take another kick at it for fear that the branch would finally give.
When the dog turned its fang-bearing head around towards him and reached out one of its front paws in his direction, Clayton froze momentarily, thinking he was hallucinating. The dog’s body began to pop, stretch, and morph. Its leg and paw seemed to elongate and reach like furry fingers extending from a furry human arm. Just before it could grab ahold of him, Clayton screamed loudly as he completely disregarded the stability of the limb and scooted backwards with legs flailing just out of the monster’s reach. The movement caused the branch to finally break and both he and the beast fell to the ground. Clayton heard the man on the porch laughing loudly as he fell, then came a shrieking yelp right before he struck his head and lost consciousness.
Clayton awoke to searing pain as a paramedic rubbed his sternum roughly with a knuckle. He stopped when the boy came to, but that pain was immediately followed by the agony of another medic handling his wounded ankle.
“Hey buddy, can you hear me?” asked the medic at his chest. Clayton nodded. “No don’t move your head. Use your voice.”
“Yes,” said Clayton.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Clayton…”
“Good,” he said. “Did you know him?”
“Know who?” asked Clayton. A uniformed cop walked up to them with his thumbs in his utility belt.
“What about him?” said the cop as he motioned an elbow away from where Clayton was.
“Dead,” said the medic.
“Good,” said Clayton. One medic raised an eyebrow. “What? He tried to kill me.” The cop shook his head.
“What in God’s name is happening here? Just last week we found the rotting corpses of an old man and his beagle just inside the house. Now this?”
“Corpus, huh,” said one medic.
“City is bat-shit crazy,” said the other.
“Well, let me radio homicide,” said the cop.
“Homicide?” asked Clayton. “For a dog?”
“For that kid,” said the cop.
Clayton sat up, head spinning. As the paramedic tried to get him to lay back, Clayton looked over his shoulder expecting to see the corpse of the large, black dog that had chased him up the walnut tree. Instead, lying dead on the ground, he saw Greg’s naked, chubby body and the sharp end of the broken tree branch piercing his neck. His furry arms looked mangy, and his amber eyes were stuck wide open.