That's What Good Dogs Do

The first time I smelled it, the air felt wrong. My nose twitched as my tail stiffened, but she didn’t notice. She sat at the table, staring into nothing, her fingers tapping at the wood like tiny bones knocking. The house was too still that night. No music. No laughter. Just the steady hum of the refrigerator and the soft rasp of her breathing. I padded closer, head tilted. Her eyes flicked up, flat, empty, cold like water in winter, and even though she smiled, something inside me backed away.

Days passed strange. She forgot my walks, meals, even my name. Sometimes she’d call me into the hallway and talk in a whisper, not to me, but to the shadows crawling along the walls. I barked, she didn’t flinch. I could see something move behind her, tall and wrong, but every time I lunged, it vanished. One evening, she stared out the window for hours, humming a tune that trembled in her throat. I curled by her feet, pretending to sleep, but the hum became a growl that wasn’t hers. The lights winked out, and the house held its breath.

Last night, she went into the cellar. She never came back up. I scratched at the door until my paws bled, whining, pressing my snout to the crack. That scent again, iron and rot, thick as fog, slid beneath the door. I remembered her voice calling me, the way she used to sound, before the whispering started. I barked for her to answer, but something else answered instead. A low sound, almost human. Then the handle moved on its own.

Now she’s back upstairs, but she doesn’t smell like her. She moves slower, her steps dragging like claws on wood. When she crouches to pet me, her hands feel cold and damp. I want to run, but her voice, hollow and sweet, says my name the way she used to. I wag my tail because that’s what I’m supposed to do. She smiles, her teeth too sharp in the low light. I realize it’s not her anymore, but I can’t stop myself. The tail keeps wagging. That’s what good dogs do.