Cynophobia

“Elaine disappeared in the woods. I told her to never go out there without me.

“It’s too dangerous! I would tell her. ‘Don’t be a pussy.’ She would say back. I loved the way she would chuckle.”

“Did you go looking for her?”

“Yeah, but all I found was that damn cabin in the woods.”

“Did you go in the cabin?”

“That’s where I found the shredded carcass on table. The stench was foul. I’ll never be able to get that damn smell out of my memory. I think it was a dog.”

“What makes you think that?”

“You’ll think I’m crazy.”

“I’m your therapist Howard, I already know you’re crazy. But if you finally open up to me, we can find out together what actually happened in those woods.”

“She told me the dog wasn’t dead.”

“Who did? Elaine?”

“Yeah. She was sitting on the other side of the table, eyes all sunken in like a corpse. Matter of fact I can’t remember her eyes being open at all. She was stained with blood, but it wasn’t fresh. As if she shredded up that dog herself, but way after it died. Black and brown stains all over her face and neck, running down her breast and staining her white shirt. Her flesh was covered in claw marks. Nasty ones too, almost like that dog was fighting her back. Which didn’t add up since it was so decomposed. There’s no way it was alive when she got there.”

“Jesus Harold, that is some intense imagery.”

“Words can’t do this horrific scene justice Mr. Kain.”

“Tell me about the dog, Harold. You said in our last session it attacked you.”

“Well, I wasn’t even able to finish saying her name before it happened. I saw her lips move, but Elaines voice didn’t come out. Instead it was like, behind me or something. Maybe it was in my head, I can’t really tell. That’s right about where things started to blur - or darken rather.

“I was awestruck. ‘Look at your self.’ She whispered - or screamed maybe, but like far away in some cavernous way. It was almost psychedelic. I was telling myself it was just a terrible dream when I was grabbed by the back of my collar like a puppy that got off its leash. I felt its claws knick the top of my nape as it grabbed me.

“I was dragged through that house faster than any human being could have possibly moved. Slammed repeatedly on the walls, bashing my head, and my ribs against corners of corridors and stairs.”

“You never mentioned the stairs before. Did the cabin have a cellar?”

“Yeah, it dragged me down a single flight of stairs. I can vividly recall the way each stair felt like a wooden oar being swung into my ribs repeatedly. It was extremely dark down there, but as soon as I made it to the bottom of the staircase, my head hit the wall and I was out cold.”

Mr. Kain discreetly wrote something down in his notebook. Harold didn’t notice because his therapist made sure to continue looking at Harold as he wrote. It probably had something to do with the fact that Harold had no injuries whatsoever when the police found him.

“I woke up to this terrible hissing sound. I was standing knee deep in the swamp listening to the piercing cry of a cicada.”

“Cicadas don’t cry in November, Harold.”

“I know, but it wasn’t cold anymore. Honestly it was oppressively humid. Like a summer night after a thunderstorm. The smell of sulphur was fetid. And that fucking dog was there too. On a log, propped up with its bony legs crossed - sitting upright like a human being. She was mostly bones. Fleshy strands hung off her canine limbs. Her arms were outstretched like wings as she whispered, yet completely unmoving. A static abhorration.”

“You keep saying she. How do you know the dog was a female?”

“She spoke in Elaine’s voice, Kain. Sorry - Mister Kain.”

“You know you can call me Tony, Harold.”

“We’re not friends, Mr. Kain. You only talk to me because its your job.”

“Sure, call me whatever you like Harold.”

“Don’t patronize me bitch. I’ll gladly go back into solitary.”

“No need to be hostile, I’m here to help you remember?”

“What, so you can tell them I’m crazy? I don’t want an insanity plea, I’m innocent.”

“Harold, dear, you were basically bathing in that poor girls blood when they found you.”

“But none of my DNA was at the crime scene. We both know that’s the only thing keeping me from the chair.”

“There’s no death penalty in Massachussetts, Harold.”

“Whatever. Bring me back to my cell.”

“How about you tell me the rest of your story first?”

“You already know the rest.”

Harold was found knee deep in the snow, lathered in dark, coagulated blood with pupils the size of dimes. No drugs in his system.

“You were whispering something. What were you saying?”

“The dog isn’t dead.”