Dead Dogs
Denis Tiani

Denis Tiani is a famed weird illustrator for Arkham House, Stu Schiffs Whispers, Gerald W. Page's late great Witchcraft & Sorcery, and Harry O. Morris' Silver Scarab Press (Nyctalops magazine, etc.), which has at this moment a lovely, morbid portfolio of Denis' artwork available. Denis' prose is much rarer, appearing chiefly in Fantasy & Terror. The present vignette from issue five (new series) is perhaps typical of his highly atypical style.

My eyes were open but I could not wake. The room was dark but I could see everything clearly. There was a buzzing sound I could feel. There were shadows on the walls -- moving -- becoming recognizable.
A dog was on the floor at the head of my bed. It had the look of death. It was standing next to a small opening in the wall. It was dark inside the wall.
The dog just looked at me, with the saddest eyes I have ever seen. It seemed like a nice dog. After a while it sat down and went to sleep, and so did I.
The next day I saw it again, on my way to work. And I kept seeing it wherever I went. It followed me around. I'd walk down the street, pass an alley, look in, and there it was: hiding behind some garbage cans. And every time I saw it it looked worse; rotten skin falling off, flies buzzing around it, maggots crawling over and through it. It didn't smell good, either. Everything but the eyes were decomposing.
One night I woke up, as usual, and there it was: lying on the floor at the foot of my bed, smelling up the room. It looked worse than ever; it scared me. I got mad, yelled, and threw a shoe at it. The dog got up, slowly, turned around, and limped away, into the hole in the wall.
I was sorry for what I had done. I felt sorry for the poor animal. I could hear it whimpering. I called it, but there was no response.
A week went by. It was still in there, in the wall. I could hear it dying. I crawled in to look for it.
It was dark inside the walls, and it seemed much larger than it could have been. It was like another world in there, and somewhere up ahead was a light -- or something. I crawled toward it.
The dog was curled up in a small alcove; a nest was padded with shredded newspaper. The light was coming from the dog itself. Its rotting flesh was glowing. Its eyes looked at me; yellow matter drained from the ducts. Something was behind the eyes, something so sad it was terrifying.
The dog was treating the maggots as if they were its pups. Frightened and repulsed, I turned away.
The poor old thing got up, as best it could, and followed me as I tried to make my way out, tried to get back to my room. Silently limping; dragging itself; trailing dead flesh. The maggots dropped off its decaying body as it moved, and followed after it.
I don't know what happened, but somehow I got lost in the walls. I couldn't find the opening. All the while those sad eyes followed me.
I panicked. I began clawing at the plaster.
The dog stopped to bury its bones as they fell off.
I was too tired to go on. I found a spot and went to sleep.
My sleep was infected with dreams -- dreams of the dog -- and I woke to find the animal watching me. I called it. It came forward. I patted it. The maggots in the dog's mouth licked my hand.
Then the dog showed me the way out.
After that, years passed, and I didn't see the dog again. I met a woman, fell in love, got married. We had children. The children grew up and left. My wife died. I watched them lower her into the ground, and I was left alone, and old, to die.
On my deathbed I awoke from sleep one night to find the dog next to my bed, where I had first seen it. Its eyes were gone now, and in the empty sockets maggots looked out.
I put my hand on its head; the maggots crawled up my arm. Then I lifted myself out of bed, and followed the dog into the wall.
It reminded me of an open grave.
I wanted to cry, but there was no reason to.