Palindrome

The cabin in the woods had been abandoned for years, but one night, a candle burned in the window. That's why I got it so damn cheap. The neglected shanty had no power and dust bunnies the size of Volkswagens.

I've always been a pragmatist. Well, that's not true. Since Henry, I've been a pragmatist. I suppose, at a certain point in a woman's life, she realizes that the cavalry isn't coming. I sacrificed the perfect career and the perfect relationship and a thousand other idyllic fantasies on the altar of mere survival and it hurt. I had to let the magic drain out of the future I once imagined and learn to settle for what I was statistically likely to get.

Homeownership was my first step, so I scrimped and saved, and lowered my expectations before contacting my realtor. Upon seeing the absolute garbage he showed me the first few times, I abandoned my expectations altogether. Even the worst houses in the city limits were way out of my price range.

I remember meeting him for the first time, Jeff, my realtor. He was all harshly projected false confidence and just enough excess hair gel to be vaguely rapey. There was a phoniness to him that irked me, but he was also the only real estate agent in the county unestablished enough to work with such a meager down payment.

This late summer evening, he played it cool about the place. Absurdly, he avoided the macabre list of those who'd met their end in or around the dilapidated cabin. As if anyone in our small town could possibly avoid the rumors if we tried.

There was the incel in the late 80's who purchased the place and wrote this bonkers diary that was completely derivative of Son of Sam. His cat told him to do this and that heinous thing. I forgot his name, it never seemed important to me then, but I remembered he took the high road and put a .45 in his mouth instead of carrying out the acts his cat insisted upon. The irony stuck with me. My backwoods town couldn't even turn out a crazy suicide that was original.

"-and I can go ahead and give you the keys, I'm not supposed to yet but-", Jeff must have been saying something forgettable, but this last part broke my reverie as he grinned at me conspiratorially.

I shivered. He must have noticed because I saw the Cheshire grin facade slip. He wanted me to see him as a rebel and for me to feel that I owed him a favor. For a second I thought about what he was after, slipping off into the cabin to seal the deal on the house. I thought about our bodies entwined, he wasn't an unattractive man, I involuntarily gagged when I imagined his hair unpleasantly crunching under my palm in the throes of-

"What's wrong?" Jeff popped open the door of his pick-up with a look of genuine concern on his face. His expression quickly changed to fear when Howie leapt off the porch and barreled toward him like a linebacker. Jeff managed to get the door of his truck open and I called Howie off just before he sunk his teeth into the back of his khaki-covered calf.

I felt my face flush. "It's okay, but don't you have a chain for that Cujo or something?" Jeff puffed out through heaving breaths, misinterpreting my blush.

I thought of correcting him. Explaining that I was not embarrassed by Howie's behavior, but mortified that I'd pictured myself in flagrante delicto with my real estate agent like some kind of bad porn. I looked down at Howie, his back all tall white spikes where he stood rigid, still growling with raised heckles. What a good boy. I didn't explain myself to Jeff, I just didn't care.

I patted Howie and he loosened up a bit as we watched Jeff's tail lights disappear into the pine trees. We went into the cabin and I lit the gas stove and started warming up one of the cast iron pans I had insisted on buying after reading a blog about them. Secretly, I hated the archaic cookware for how obnoxiously heavy they were. I felt as if I would sprain my wrist when shoveling food onto a plate from them. While I waited, I spooned out some canned dog food and mixed it with a bit of the kibble for Howie. He sat by the bowl and rested his head to watch me; waiting for me to start eating my meal in his gentlemanly way.

After our quiet meal, I retired to my hammock which I had earlier slung between two support pillars in the center of the large downstairs room which served as the kitchen, den, and dining room. That first night's sleep was the only decent one I managed for a long time afterward.

I tackled my list of do-it-yourself tasks with electric determination the next day. I loved the fact that I could now call myself a homeowner. Normally I would procrastinate on such an overwhelming to-do list on a pleasant summer day like this, but now I had this little house on the prairie thing going and I was going to give it my all.

Howie watched me paint shutters for a while, then trotted off deeper into the southern pine forest. I remember his paws made almost no noise at all on the thick bed of long brown pine needles blanketing the ground in every direction. It's not that I owned a great deal of land, if only I had that kind of money. The Cabin sat right up against Daniel Boone National Forest and there were no fences or markers in a remote county like this. I knew Howie would be fine and come back on his own.

Things got strange that afternoon. At first, I rationalized, thought I was imagining the hammer not where I left it. That can of screws overturned from the wind somehow, even though it was a stifling day and the can weighed several pounds. Whenever I would set a tool down and let it get out of sight, it would go missing. All the while Howie was there, pacing, agitated, like he smelled something wrong. Even writing it down, it all seems like it could easily be chalked up to coincidence. Nothing spooky, just a girl alone with her dog in the woods, getting a little paranoid and ascribing malice to inanimate objects.

That night Howie watched me in his usual position, head resting on his paw next to his bowl. Preparing our dinners, I distracted myself from the growing sense of unease. When I sat down to eat I felt a sudden spike of anxiety as I reached for the salt, not looking, merely relying on muscle memory. I grasped nothing at all. Again, this may sound benign to the casual reader, but this is one of my big quirks. One guy broke up with me because of my crazy "salt and pepper obsession".

I think it all goes back to this old British lady smacking the back of my ten-year-old head and telling me, "the salt and pepper must never be divorced". My parents enrolled me in this inane etiquette class, wanting me to explore my debutante roots. I was so traumatized by being assaulted in this way that I cried until they let me out of it. The papery skin covering her bony hand with tendons and thick, blue veins like snakes had burrowed into her body and were fighting to escape through her fingertips. When that rheumatic appendage collided with the back of my head where I couldn't see, something broke in me. I imagined a blue snake escaping her and burrowing into me. Making me like the dried-up old hag. And why the hell was an old British woman teaching etiquette in the deep south anyway? Don't tell me she couldn't find a stuffy, repressed sub-culture in the mother country. I digress.

I sat, shaking with a feeling akin to a 50-50 mixture of fear and rage. The pepper sat there all alone, taunting me. Howie got up and sat by me with his tongue lolling out in his characteristic grin-pant. "You go ahead and eat buddy."

I pushed back from the table and sat there, head in hand. Jeff. It had to be that crunchy-headed realtor. These little pranks were his way of getting to me for my less-than-welcoming response to his advances. How was he doing it? Would he keep escalating into something more extreme? Hurt me? Kill Howie? I felt my throat tighten.

Okay, time to pump the brakes. Could this all just be in my head? I focused on some deep regular breaths. It was probably all a coincidence. I’m alone in the woods, anyone might get a little spooked. I clenched a fist, balling up my curly red locks near my scalp. I knew with cold certainty that I couldn’t take the chance. My basic white girl, true-crime podcast phase from a few years back, told me I was better off being paranoid than becoming a statistic. I’d catch him tomorrow and he’d wish I had just let Howie bite his ass. I was going to get straight-up Macaulay Culkin in this house.

Overcoming the unique challenge of not harming my dog with any of the various booby traps I rigged wasn’t easy. Howie was a smart boy, but still just a dog. I won’t bore you with the details, but suffice it to say, I had to devise traps either tall enough or uninteresting enough to keep Howie in reasonable safety, but formidable enough to catch a creep. Even so, while ostensibly choring about the cabin, I was mostly keeping my eyes on Howie. Strangely, he seemed to keep well away from my various contrivances, as if he were in on the joke.

Around dusk, I heard a muffled yelp that brought a smile to my face. I told Howie to stay and walked around the side of the cabin, to the back door. I had the pleasure of rounding the corner just as the full can of red paint dumped on the would be voyeur. Most of the contents distributed over Jeff’s head and business casual wardrobe instantly due to the string I had tied to the handle, but the empty can still struck him on the head with a satisfying bonk.

Jeff was caught, one leg through the faulty floorboard I had weakened. He was “Captain Morganing it”, bemused and looking wildly about, as if he could play it off. I chose the red paint because I wanted him caught literally red-handed, that kind of thing gave me a chuckle. He hadn’t seen me yet. I couldn’t tell, but I hoped he wet his pants when he heard the universal “oh shit” sound of my pump action twelve-gauge chambering a shell. I’m no gun enthusiast, but once again, I’m a girl alone in the woods and a self- professed pragmatist. Especially after that restraining order, I put on Henry, but, well this story isn’t about that.

“What the hell!?” Jeff tried to pull out some indignance, but really, I could practically smell the big stinky fear.

“You tell me. What? Got your little incel feelings hurt so you decided to mess with the poor little client in the woods? Scare her real good? Make her see she needs a big, strong man around to make her feel safe? That it?” I kept the shotgun pointed at the ground, he was no threat with his leg stuck like that and we both knew it.

“I-I was just bringing you the extra keys.”

“Right, that why you came to the back door? Parked your truck a quarter mile down the road and hoofed it through the trees?” I noticed he had his phone out in his hand. He was holding it out and away from him, trying to keep it paint-free. “I hope you’re calling the cops, I’d love to hear you explain this to them. WAIT. Were you trying to record me changing!? I hope your hair gel makes you bald!"

He stared down at his leg, caught in the floor boards and explained weakly, "its a-a pomeade-"

“Marvelous, now give him that wad of buckshot.” I nearly leapt out of my skin at the strange lilting voice coming from behind and somehow, below me.

Fortunately, I had kept my finger out of the trigger guard and the safety on or, I would certainly have pulled the trigger in my panic. I whirled around and saw no one. No one, but Howie. I looked down at his big, droopy brown and white face where I saw an expression unlike any I’d ever seen on his loveable features. It was unnatural to put it mildly. It's easy to ascribe human facial features to dogs, and while they do communicate with their bodies it's important for the rest of the story that you understand that is not what I mean. This was different, there was an uncanny and very human smile on his canine face. I felt goose bumps rise all over my body. It was the kind of cold smile I knew from those true-crime TV reenactments of serial killers. The smile of a sadist.

I just stood staring dumbly down at him. “H-Howie?” I managed to squeak out of my tight throat.

“You got him dead to rights, Carolina. Pull that trigger, I wanna see you paint the back door! Red, red, red, ruff-". He descended into peels of laughter then, slowly into real barks as his bristles raised on his back and his expression flickered back to his normal, bushy eye-browed, look of adoration I knew so well! Howie flopped over and started biting at his back leg and belly, not like a dog usually does. Not like scratching an itch. He bit hard. Drawing blood in a couple of spots.

“Now, now! None of that little beasty. Strong will your boy has, huh Carolina?” He looked up at me now with that same disgustingly gleeful smile.

I whirled around when I heard a heavy thud by the cabin. Jeff had fainted.

“Aww, well let's wait until he wakes up to kill him. It’s no fun when they can’t see it coming.”

I just stared at Howie for a long time while he looked back at me in turn. “What? Who?” I began, but Howie or whatever it was cut me off.

“Oh spare me. This is my least favorite part, the whole, ‘What are you? Leave my dog alone! Why is this happening to poor ol’ me?’ You’re all alike and I’m sick of the same old script every time. I’m what you would call a god, I’m wearing your dog like a big, smelly suit because I need an anchor to enter your world and I can’t use a human or directly harm you skin bags. Yes even gods have rules to follow. Do what I say and we’ll have a grand old time. Ooh, let's drag him out of there but cut the Achilles tendon on one leg so he has to hop away. That look of fear mixed with the knowledge of permanent harm is exquisite. Take your power back! You can call him Henry if you want, I won’t tell.” He collapsed on the ground and rolled about in peels of that high-pitched cackling. It was cold and dry like ice cracking on a lake.

“A..a god?” I stammered out.

“Ugh, aren’t we past this? Cut to the chase! Literally, I mean, cut him and we’ll chase him.”

I probably should have been more concerned for my own sanity. I mean, I know whoever is reading this probably is. I’ve tried to capture the essence of that… thing in words, but I’m not sure it conveys just how much of an annoying chatterbox he was. I suppose in hindsight that was why, more than anything, I just started to feel pissed off. “This is how you get your jollies? I’m supposed to believe you’re a god? And you just hop in a dog to convince its owner to kill for you?”

Howie, or the entity controlling him, circled and then flopped over and, I kid you not, started cleaning his genitals in a very dog-like fashion.

“Gross!”

“If you could do it you would too.” His voice was strangely muffled with his nose shoved under his shaggy back leg.

“You’re disgusting.”

“I was talking about hopping in the body of an animal to take it for a spin, but your response clearly tells me you’ve given the other thing some thought.”

"Who knew gods were so perverted, or-,” I was formulating the beginnings of a plan here, “or- so pathetic.” He seemed egotistical and prone to pontification. Perhaps I could drive him to let something slip. I was grasping at straws, but hey, you try thinking on your feet in that kind of situation.

Howie abruptly stopped licking and slowly stood up, stretching. He glared at me. I can’t possibly describe how heartbreaking it was to see his face contort into that look of pure venom. The one face that had always looked at me with unconditional love and adoration. “I know I didn’t just hear the word pathetic.”

“What are you gonna do about it? You already told me you can’t harm me, sounds like you’re more neutered than Howie here if you ask me.” I can’t explain it, but his face actually turned red, fur and all. It would have been cartoonishly hilarious under different circumstances.

“Neutered? Pathetic!? Oh, there's more than one way to hurt you, sweeeet Caroliiiiiine.” Belting out the Neil Diamond lyrics in Henry’s voice somehow, he knew what he was doing.

I felt the cold sweat pour down the back of my neck. That was the song Henry always sang when he used to- NO! I can’t think about that now. He took off toward the creek, I knew he was headed for the deeper section that looped a stone's throw from where we were by the back door, but I couldn’t imagine why. I stalked him through the towering pines as dusk descended into the pre-moon darkness.

He stopped at the stream and slowly turned his grinning face to me as he sat with his back to the water. I don’t know if it was on purpose, but the way he sat cut me to the heart, it so perfectly reminded me of my brave boy. “Think I have no power over you? How about I drown your pup right here and come back to torment you as an armadillo? Severe the last real, albeit pathetic connection to a living being you have on this planet, then we’ll really see what kind of crazy I can get out of you? I’ll have you making pinatas out of Jeff’s organs by the end of the week. In fact, why am I threatening you, I can already see this little demonstration is necessary.” He stood up abruptly and turnend toward the swimming hole.

That was my name for it, that deep pool in the horseshoe bend of the creek. I remembered coming here to wash off yesterday after working on the cabin. Howie came running up and splashed in next to me, we romped and played. Yesterday, or what felt like a million years ago when things were simple. I felt tears streaming freely down my face as I leveled the shotgun at him and took a few steps back. “W-wait.” I sobbed.

“OR WHAT!? Do You really expect me to believe you’re going to shoot your precious Howie? If it weren’t so laughable, I’d say go ahead. Give me ten thousand years and I’d never come up with better torture for you."

I kept backing away slowly, counting in my head.

“You’re really taking the menace out of it by backing up to shoot me. Trying to impress me with your aim?” The entity taunted.

I took one last look at Howie as I abruptly stopped. It was just for a moment, but it was as if time froze. I saw my boy as he had always been. Cute, but somehow brave and noble sitting there. Even through the gloom, I could see him, with more than my eyes. I slowly breathed out, popped the safety over with my finger, and I shot my dog.

I was always an excellent shot. I saw the visible yelp escape his shaggy body as the tiny metal balls collided with him, not that I could see those, they moved far too fast. I heard nothing, but the ringing in my ears as Howie’s body flew back into the water.

Immediately aftward, it was as if an enormous cloud of steam rose from the water, hovered, and solidified into a broad shape, roughly taller and broader than a basketball goal. Dark, Elk-like horns pierced the air above. I never got a great look at it, it was dark, but I think it had a somewhat ursine body, with humanoid hands and claws extending from the fingers. Even in the darkness, I could see gleaming points reflecting the dim starlight. What looked like hundreds of arachnid eyes all over its body seemed fixed on me. It barreled towards me with a roar. I stood my ground. Chunk-chunk I chambered another shell and fired. I repeated this over and over, each time seeing large bits of flesh fly off the body until it finally fell right at my feet and dissipated like a monster in a video game.

I dropped the shotgun and sprinted for the creek. I’ve never been a religious person, but I was praying to whoever would listen. I leapt into the swimming hole and splashed under. Bobbing back to the surface, I extended my hands and frantically swam about, kicking out wildly with my legs, hoping to contact wet fur. I found Howie, floundering more or less in a circle. His obvious disorientation broke my heart.

It took all of my strength and we both nearly drowned, but I managed to pull us both up on the bank where I began to vomit creek water. As soon as I could, I searched Howie’s body with my fingers. I found as I had hoped, only small lumps under his fur. The birdshot hadn’t penetrated further than the surface of his muscle tissue. “Thank God!” I sobbed and held him for a long while.

I’ve never really been a “nice” girl, but I never wanted to kill Jeff or anyone else. I never even wanted to kill Henry. I’d loaded the first round in the shotgun with birdshot and I knew I could stand far back enough and it would be relatively harmless, like getting shot in the body by a bunch of bb guns all at the same time. I had planned to give Jeff a good scare if he tried to charge me once I “home aloned” him, but if he persisted, I had pulled out the ammo plug and loaded four more lethal buckshot shells right behind the bird shot. How lethal was it though? The entity called itself a god. Can you kill a god?

Howie cuddled in close and I cried into his chest. I’m sure he was very sore from the birdshot but he didn’t seem to mind. He strangely seemed like he understood that I had to shoot him and was giving me cuddles. He licked my face as if to say, “Thanks for getting the scary thing out of me Mom, its okay, I'm okay.” Strange for him to be so perceptive, so understanding. He’s always been smart, but now it was like he possessed some vast new level of intelligence.

Perhaps even Sentience?