The cool rain relaxed. Red autumn leaves comforted. The walkway Snowball’s nose was glued to wore the season’s fragrance.
Autumn in Weston was as mysterious as it was beautiful–fog blanketed the streets early, covering the stories that trod on them. The chimney smelled of smoke and secrets.
Then–
A whistle.
A piercing echo that tore through the Victorian buildings that lined Weston’s harbour.
“Probably just the wind.” A passerby shrugged her shoulders.
But dogs crouched under tables. Snowball didn’t.
She growled.
And sensed.
🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴
The piercing echo relived nightly–a searing screech in an otherwise peaceful Weston night.
But only animals knew.
Dogs would sit, alert, as windows trembled.
Cats refused to purr.
Long-legged shadows appeared in children’s drawings in school.
Pockets started to ignore Snowball–slinking home without explanation.
Snowball’s ears perked.
Her snout twitched.
It was NOT wind.
🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴
The scent trail was an eerie Pied Piper–too alluring for Snowball.
Under a night sky covered with fog and murk, she led Pockets to the home of Miss Tamara, Weston Elementary School’s Principal.
The young female Westie climbed into the chimney shaft, her reluctant cat sidekick trailing her from above.
They dropped into the living room, landing in the fireplace like Santa having arrived too early.
On the walls–claw marks.
Cutting deep into the wall’s surface.
Miss Tamara’s cat, Mewton, meowed from below.
But the purr was too–urgent.
Low.
Not hers.
🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴
The piercing continued, the call irresistible.
Weston’s creatures, great and small, started melding into the wall’s cracks, like smoke into stone.
The walls stopped their hum. The chimney closed itself with a low moan.
Mewton’s true meows–sharp, alert, and all too real–coursed through the chimney shaft.
Under Miss Tamara’s rose bush–
A whistle.
Wrapped in red thread.
Weston’s dogs emerged in the night, howling in chorus.
Pockets curled up for a nap in the sun once again–with one eye open.
Children no longer drew shadows. They drew guardians–white terriers with wide ears and smug grey cats.
🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴
People walked past the Principal’s house once more–at a slower pace.
They thanked the wind.
When the air grows still, they know.
That quiet isn’t calm.
That calm is earned.
Snowball curled up beside Michelle that night, ears in their familiar, proud perk.
They still twitched in her sleep.
But not because she shirked.
She just heard.
🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴
.If you like this story, do join me on Patreon! Buy this blog a coffee — it keeps the words flowing and the lights on! ☕Your kind donation via Paypal would be greatly appreciated!
Please find a book of my horror microfiction, Echoes in the Dark, free for download here.
The Getting Literal Writing Alcove 