WALKING THE DOG By Rick McQuiston

Walking The Dog

George felt the top-most layer of skin on his knuckles sheer back beneath the rusty surface of the alternator bracket. The metal was unforgiving on his soft flesh, as if reminding him that its job was securing the alternator to the front of the engine block, not yield to human hands. George straightened up and flung the wrench onto the oil-stained driveway.

The stainless-steel tool pinged off the concrete and spiraled onto the front lawn like a missile, finally settling against the trunk of a small tree. 

With his rage sated George quickly looked up and down the street to make sure nobody saw his outburst. The last thing he wanted was an embarrassing situation with a neighbor.

Just when he was about to get back to his car repair the movement caught George’s eye.

The man was walking his dog along Masonic Boulevard. The animal was large, possibly a retriever, and they seemed to be sauntering along without a care in the world. The dog trotted in front of the man, its four legs in perfect synchronization with each other as it pulled its owner along which each step it took. Its mangy black fur rustled in the breeze.

George found himself staring at the man and his pet. There was nothing unusual about the pair, they were merely out enjoying the tranquility of a beautiful   morning, but he still couldn’t stop himself from watching them.            

            *                

            The mailbox squeaked as George opened it. Three single envelopes were all that were inside, and he was happy to see that none of them were bills.

            As he closed the lid he noticed in his peripheral vision a man walking his dog down the street. He tilted his head back slightly as he turned to get a better view.

            There was no doubt about it, it was the same man as the day before. But there was one major difference…the man was unquestionably shorter.

            George rubbed his eyes. He stepped forward and focused on the man and his pet, and stepped back again. Not only was the man shorter, but also he was smaller as well. And the dog. It had to be at least twice the size it had been the previous day.

              Its head was as big as a basketball, swinging from side to side as it strode along, undoubtedly confident from its increased size.

            George felt his stomach churn. The coffee and toast he’d had for breakfast swirled in his gut like a stone in the tide, pinging into the stomach lining with each passing second. He wanted to run down the street and confront the man (but not the dog) and demand an explanation. And since there was nobody else around he reasoned that a confrontation couldn’t hurt. So he tucked his mail under his arm and started to walk down the sidewalk.

After twenty or so steps however his resolve began to waver. The man and his dog were hardly moving, thus allowing a much clearer view of them.

The dog’s face was like a stone gargoyle. It glared at him with hatred he wouldn’t have thought a dog could possess. The eyes were empty black pools without pupils. They reminded George of a shark’s eyes, cold and driven by a single purpose.

George stopped dead in his tracks. The man did not look at him, didn’t even turn his head. He simply stared straight ahead as if in some type of trance.

And then suddenly the man and his dog started to walk away.

Standing there looking like a fool George finally sulked back into the house.

*             

            The sunshine was peeking through the trees as if announcing the upcoming day. George felt the warm breeze on his face as he made his way to his car. He was tired and wondered if anyone in the office would notice. He’d had next to no sleep the night before, and was certain it would make the workday drag on more than it usually did. With a grunt of bored discontentment on his breath and a cup of luke-warm coffee in his hand he sauntered towards his car.

            The slight movement in the corner of his eye startled George. It was indistinct but warranted his attention nonetheless.

            His cup of coffee shattered on the driveway.

            It was the man and his dog again, walking down Masonic Boulevard. Or perhaps it would have been more appropriate to say the dog and his man. The poor guy couldn’t have been more than two or three feet tall, and the dog was at least four feet at the shoulders, maybe five. It yanked the man along behind it with short,

violent tugs. It would have been comical if it weren’t real.

            George slipped his cell phone out of his pocket. He intended to call the authorities. That man needed help. He needed somebody to intervene before things got ugly.

            He stopped dialing. He couldn’t call the police. They’d think he was crazy. Who’d believe a five- hundred pound dog?

            The dog then swung its threatening gaze over to George. Even from a distance George could see the hatred and evil in the beast’s eyes. He quickly slid into his car, never once taking his eyes off the dog. He wanted to be certain that it wasn’t going to suddenly turn and charge him. A dog that size would turn his car into scrap metal.

            Smashing the accelerator to the floor George sped away from the huge beast and the frail man. He noticed as they grew smaller and smaller in his rear-view mirror that they continued to walk away as if nothing had happened.

                                    *       

            Two days had passed and George was beginning to think he imagined the man and his dog. Even though the episode still held a prominent place in his thoughts he suppressed it as best he could, confining it to the furthest regions of his mind. And so when he strolled onto his driveway to retrieve his newspaper, the morning sun warming his face, the gentle breeze bending the trees slightly, he saw something that turned his world upside down. The impossible became possible. Sanity crossed over into madness. Day turned into midnight.                                                       

           The man and his dog were walking down the sidewalk. With each step the dog grew both in size and ferocity. It dwarfed the man who, accordingly, seemed to shrink with each step he took.

            George stood there, his robe fluttering in the breeze, his jaw practically on the cement. The newspaper fell to the ground and promptly came apart, different sections: Sports, Business, Local, folding into disarray before blowing away.

            The man and the dog were getting closer and closer to George. He could see them more clearly now, and understood, for the most part, what they really were.

            The dog thing was swinging its deformed head from side to side, black spittle spinning from its mouth in coils and splattering on the ground. Thin plumes of scorched earth drifted up from where the stuff landed. It smelled like an open grave in a rainstorm.

            George came to his senses and backed up, his eyes remaining on the dog thing. He felt as if his legs were made of rubber, his head full of air. He was becoming disoriented, weakened by the sheer terror he was feeling.

            “H…help me,” the man croaked. “Please help me.”

            Tearing his gaze away from the beast George looked at the man. He was a pathetic sight. His scrawny body couldn’t have weighed more than 90 pounds. Open wounds revealed raw meat beneath, and his hair was hanging in loose clumps on top of his small head. He seemed to be collapsing in on himself. His arms were nothing more than bones with a thin sheet of pulpy flesh layered over them. His skeletal face was so gaunt it was hardly able to convey the pain he was enduring. One look at it

and George knew what was happening to the poor man.

            The leash. It was the leash. Only it wasn’t a leash at all, but some type of tentacle, an appendage which extended from the bulging back of the dog and fused somehow with the hand of the man. It pulsated as it drained his life away.

            “Please help me,” was the last thing the man said before what was left of his body was sucked into the tentacle in one disgusting slurp. The dog thing’s belly bloated up, trembled for a moment, and then contorted back to its previous size.

            George understood completely now. The man hadn’t been walking his dog, the dog had been pulling the man along, feeding as it did so. And now the man was gone. He’d been the beast’s lunch, nothing more. He’d been captured and eaten by whatever was masquerading as man’s best friend.

            Watching the dog thing shiver and convulse as it digested its meal George suppressed the urge to vomit. He stood frozen, unable to move, although he knew deep down that he wouldn’t get very far even if he was able to run for it. The beast would surely overtake him.

            The dog lumbered forward, its bulbous head growling as it drew closer and closer to its new prey, the tentacle was dragged along behind it. And in one swift movement the feeler swung up into the air, swayed for a brief moment, and arced downward with ferocious efficiency, latching on George’s hands, binding them tightly.

            The pain was immense and all consuming. It coursed through George’s entire body all at once, rendering him helpless. He was trapped where he stood as

the dog thing loped towards him, its dark maw hanging open beneath its greasy snout. Its bulk heaved with each rancid breath it took. It eyes squinted in starved anticipation.

            Being pulled along behind the dog thing George slipped in and out of consciousness. The residual traces of his mind struggled to comprehend what was happening to him, but could barely grasp it. He’d become a dinner entrée for something nobody could ever hope to understand.

                       

*         

            Emily dried her hands on a dishtowel as the morning sun streamed through the trees, warming her small but quaint three-bedroom house. Her husband Frank had already left for work and her youngest, Eddie, busied himself in the backyard playing in his sandbox.

            Emily watched her little boy through the kitchen window. A sad smile crossed her face when she realized just how quickly they grow up. She could clearly remember when he was born.

            Pouring herself a cup of lemon-ginseng tea she steeped it a few times and took a sip. How she loved her hot cup of tea in the morning.

            “Mommy! Mommy! Can I keep him? Can I?”

            Little Eddie came barreling into the house. His face was flush with excitement.

            “What’s that honey?”

“The dog Mommy. Can I keep him?”

            “What dog?”

            Little Eddie sprinted over to the door, jumping up and down, pointing out into the backyard.

            “That one Mommy. He’s really friendly. Can I keep him?”

            Emily pondered the situation for a moment. A companion would be good for her son, as well as protection for the house. She’d have to check with Frank, but that wouldn’t be much of a problem, he loved dogs. And besides, the little fellow was kinda cute.

            She decided to get a closer look at the dog, just to make sure.

            And so, tea cup in hand, Emily opened the door and looked at the animal. Its glossy black snout poked through the chain links of the fence.

            “Oh, I don’t think so honey,” she said quietly.

             Little Eddie’s face immediately turned red as tears welled up in his eyes.

            “Why? Why can’t I keep him Mommy? Why?”

            Emily scooped up her crying son and cuddled him to her chest.

            “Because honey,” she consoled. “I think he already belongs to someone. Look, he still has a leash on.”

Bio:

Rick is a forty-three year old father of two who loves anything horror-related. He's had nearly 250 publications so far, including ones in numerous anthologies, and a few contest placings as well. He's written four anthology books, one book of novellas, and edited an anthology of Michigan authors (“Michigan Madman”). They are all available on Lulu and Amazon. He's also a guest author each year at Memphis Junior High School, and recently started work on his second novel (“Where Things Might Walk”).

FIVE LITTLE KILLERS - by Rick McQuiston

TKnC rolls out the red carpet for Rick and this cracking crime horror tale...

FIVE LITTLE KILLERS

Each man watched the fire dance upward into the star-filled sky. Occasionally they glanced at one another, but dared not hold a stare for more than a few seconds, for each man knew very well the capacity for dealing death the others were capable of.

They had gathered around a small campfire in the dense forest, far away from prying eyes, and more importantly, the authorities. Each was the recipient of an unusual invitation from a neutral party who claimed to know each one of them, and also to have “leverage”, as the invite stated, over them as well. The invite also promised significant monetary compensation.

All five men erred on the side of caution, and although skeptical of the origins of the invitation, accepted the request to meet at an impartial location.

Gerry, a young blond-haired man who was no more than twenty years old, spoke up first.

“I killed my first man when I was eighteen,” he boasted with a sly smile. “The idiot was teasing me. I opened up his throat before he could blink. Never knew what hit him.” He glanced around at the others for their reactions.

But his companions didn’t seem to be impressed. He knew he would have to embellish his exploits further.

“Took care of my dad too. He was always on my back, so one day when he wasn’t expecting it…” Still, not much of a reaction.

The old man squinted his foggy eyes and leaned forward. Having eight kills to his name, he prided himself on being able to judge the true nature of fellow evil.

“What’s your name kid?” he asked with raised eyebrows.

“Soferth. Gerry Soferth.”

“Soferth! You’re the punk who killed Randell Soferth, the millionaire developer.”

“That’s me,” Gerry quickly retorted.

“What the heck you do that for? Your freakin’ loaded. You had everything.” His eyes burned brighter than the fire. He’d seen a lot in his long, violent life and he thought he could understand almost everyone, but to see a young kid so rich and still do such terrible things, well, that he just couldn’t get a handle on. His crimes were at least instigated by hard times and bad luck.

Gerry’s smile turned into a sneer.

“That old jerk was always on my back. Every time he had to post bail he complained. So I figured I could do my thing easier without him around.”

The heavily built man straightened up. His chiseled features reflected a person who had to fight his whole life, a man who never had anything handed to him, or expected it to be. Someone who had grown accustomed to life’s harsh lessons and learned to deal with them regardless of the morality of the methods.

“And just what is your…thing?” he asked while sizing up the much smaller man.

Gerry laughed. “I’m here ain’t I? My thing is murder. I’ll kill anyone for any reason. That’s my thing.”

The other men grunted in approval, except for the bearded man.

“My name’s Charles Mathewer,” he stated deeply. “I got my first one just a couple of years ago. Strangled my landlady. Stupid broad asked for it though. She tried to raise my rent! After that, they came real easy. Figure I got about 8 or 9 by now.”

The relaxed manner in which he spoke sent chills through Gerry.

“Strangers on the street, homeless people, heck, I even got a delivery man once,”he continued. “He was a tough one though. Real messy.” His words would have disturbed any normal human being, but solicited only light reactions from the other killers.

The old man stroked his stubbled chin as a look of doubt flashed across his face. “8 or 9 huh?” he asked suspiciously. “Why didn’t they catch ya?”

Mathewer returned a stern look. “Cause I’m good at what I do.” His words echoed with sincerity.

An uneasy silence then settled over the scene with each man glaring at the other. They all knew they must be patient if they were to receive what the invitation had promised; although each was wholly prepared to “move things along” if need be.

A thin, smartly- dressed man suddenly spoke up. He spoke with an English accent that sounded cultured and well educated.

“I disposed of a gentleman during my journey to reach this rather, shall we say unique gathering,” he stated in a proud tone. Straightening his crimson tie, he continued. “A small fellow who was unfortunate enough to cross my path. I must say, though that I am indebted to him for two reasons: one, he managed to direct me here, and two, he allowed me to achieve a milestone if you will…number one hundred. I dare say I was going to be forced to remove one of you gentlemen, but now I feel that will not be necessary.”

Even the other killers were stunned at his casual tone. He spoke of death as if discussing a sports game.

“The name’s Edward Florin of Berkshire. Just arrived in this jolly good country six months ago. Been busy you know, getting myself acquainted with your customs, learning the slang of your language, watching the life run out of people.”

His strong accent added to the chilling effect of his words.

“Scotland Yard has been trailing me for well over two years now. Foolish chaps, they never even knew who I was. I’ve grown quite well into my unique occupation I’ll have you know.”

Gerry looked over at the old man, who in turn glanced at Charles Mathewer. The heavily built man stretched his thick arms out above his head and asked lazily, “What now?”

“Is anyone else coming?” Gerry asked. “Cause if not, I’ve got things to do, people to kill.”

“Oh shut up,” the old man snapped. “I don’t need any rich kid punk telling me…”

Gerry dropped the stick he was using to stir the fire and looked on in stupid amazement as the old man was suddenly hoisted twenty feet straight up and viciously torn in half. Both halves of the body landed with a wet thud near the other shocked men who sat motionless, too frightened to even move. The sheer insanity of what they had just witnessed left each one speechless.

The heavily built man slowly stood up. He fully realized that his strong physique and murderous mind was no match for whatever had killed the old man.

But before he even took a step he was propelled backwards with such force that his body literally disintegrated against a huge oak tree.

Charles Mathewer and Edward Florin exchanged nervous glances and simultaneously withdrew their pistols. The guns shook in their hands as they scanned the woods for movement.

But what was there to shoot at?

Both men looked at each other before sending bullets flying into the night.

Gerry was frozen where he stood, almost as if he were accepting his fate. He could not defend himself; he had no weapon, and fear prevented his legs from working at all. He snatched a smoldering stick from the fire. It provided little defense, but would have to do.

Charles and Edward had emptied their guns and both were frantically fumbling in their pockets for more ammunition.

“What in God’s name was that?” Gerry asked through clenched teeth.

Edward looked over at him, the face of a killer facing his own mortality. “Not quite sure old chap,” he said in an accent that seemed to lose some of its effect. “Not quite…sure.”

No sooner had the words left Edward’s mouth than his head was lopped clean off his body and bounced on the ground behind his still standing body. A thick jet of darkened blood squirted straight into the air from the stump of his neck before the corpse collapsed.

Charles Mathewer had seen enough. He dropped his empty pistol and started to sprint away from the campfire. Gerry watched in amazement, as Charles was sliced cleanly in half at the waist after taking only a few steps. He caught a glimpse of the look of astonishment on Charles’ face before both halves of the body crumpled to the ground in a bloody heap.

Fear rooted Gerry where he stood, preventing him from moving or defending himself.

“Who are you?” he shouted to the trees. “What do you want?” Seconds felt like hours as he waited for either a response or death, in a way, he didn’t really care which one.

He found himself thinking of his father, whom he had killed in an accident. He didn’t know the gun was loaded, and the memory of his father’s blood on the floor, stung like a hot needle.

Gerry had loved his dad despite their distant relationship, and his stupid idea of playing around with a gun cost him his father’s life. Then he had panicked and stumbled out of the house, never looking back, and never thinking about his poor mother. He could only imagine what she went through when she found her husband dead. He definitely learned the hard way that you can run from the law but never from yourself.

Gerry turned when he heard a certain unmistakable noise …the sound of tree branches being snapped high above, maybe fifteen or twenty feet up. Something was making its way towards him…something big, and apparently it didn’t care if it was heard or not.

And not only was it big but also, incredibly enough, invisible.

Gerry stared in disbelief as huge two- digit footprints appeared on the ground ten feet in front of him. Each was more than two feet long and eighteen inches wide. They were depressed into the soil nearly a foot deep.

Gerry wondered if this was the end for him. Was he to be wiped out like the other men? Clamping his eyes shut, he waited for the inevitable, comforted by the fact that the others’ deaths, although violent, were at least quick.

After a few minutes passed he forced himself to open his eyes. There, standing nearly twelve feet tall was an enormous being, which squatted across the fire from him. It vaguely resembled a distorted toad, with several gyrating arms and a belly that bulged out far past its bulbous legs. And even though it was partly transparent its eyes shone in a brilliant blue, and all six of them were coldly fixed on Gerry.

“Hello?” Gerry stuttered like a child. “M…my name’s Gerry.”

The thing leaned forward and shifted its bulk to one side, further crushing the log on which it sat.

“Your companions,” it boomed in a deep drawl which shook the trees. “They were evil. They are eradicated now. Theirs will cause no more death.”

It talked! It, whatever it was, actually knew English! Gerry knew he had to communicate with it, find out what it was, where it came from, what it wanted. But before he could ask, the thing abruptly stood up. It towered over him like a man over a kitten.

“Think of me as one of your police officers,” it said, nearly putting out the fire with its rancid breath. “Merely an officer doing his duty.” And then it was gone, leaving huge footprints, the remains of the other men, and a very shaken young man in its wake.

Gerry flopped to the ground in an exhausted heap. He wished he had a drink to calm his nerves. He looked around at the carnage that surrounded him and promptly emptied his stomach. The stench of death made him light-headed, and his back ached, but he was alive. And he thanked God that killing his father had only been an accident.


BIO:
I'm an avid reader and writer who has had nearly 200 publications so far and recently finished my fourth anthology book, AS MEAN AS THE NIGHT, available on Lulu and Amazon. I'm working on my first novel and am editor of Many Midnights (my own horror fiction ezine).