The Damn Thing Spoke

My first attempt at horror.

I feel it's important to, first, make it very clear that I am not Native American, nor do I know any Native Americans. I've never been privy to their culture or their myths. As such, there are some who would be quick to note the similarities in my story to something Native Americans speak of quietly, in whispers, but I'm not one of those people. I could not possibly venture to guess what my son and I encountered.

I live in an apartment on the ground floor of a gated community. Behind my building in the complex was a fence separating the apartments from an undeveloped stretch of woods. When I had first moved in, the fence was wooden, pointed at the top. But, over time, some sections of fence had become dilapidated. Not long before the night I'll begin to describe, this fence was replaced with chain link.

My wife worked nights, so naturally, it was my responsibility to put our son Maxwell to bed. He was little over a year old that night, charming and sharp and wilful. Our routine was to eat dinner, read a book or two, then take him for a walk in his stroller until he fell asleep. Often, we'd simply circle the complex under the safety of the street lights and the watchful, if nosy, eyes of our neighbors. The death of privacy, but it had never bothered me before.

That night, my son and I took a detour on our walk to go to the corner store, following the chain link fence to the complex back gate. In the dark, I couldn't help but peer through the fence into the brush and trees. Not knowing what might lie just beyond the tree line, and always with a sense of parental guardianship and urgency, my imagination did tend to run wild. But, without a doubt, I was sure I hadn't imagined the nearby barking emanating from the woods.

Loud, repetitious barking, sort of, called out from the woods. Except for sounding wet, almost gurgling, it was not unlike a dog. However, after listening for a few minutes as I pushed Max and the stroller over leaves and roots, something strange had occurred to me: this dog had been barking the exact same bark the entire time I'd been listening. No change in pitch or tone, nor in length or volume. It was as if someone had set a speaker in the middle of the trees somewhere to play one specific clip of an animal all night.

I stopped, my grip firm on the stroller. Max had heard it too, of course, and as I looked down over the stroller's visor, Max looked up to me. He couldn't speak yet, not really, just Mama and Dada, a few more pieces of words. But his eyes wondered aloud "What is that?" I told him it was a puppy dog, and started to walk again. After a few long, fast strides, I noticed the quiet. A chilling, disconcerting silence, completely absent of the "puppy dog's" monotonous bark. Until we reached the gate, Max stared intently through the fence, into the dark. When I was finished at the store, I took us home under the street lights.

Once back in my apartment, I took Max out of his stroller and set him down to play while I started a load of laundry. I gathered my family's clothes in a double armful, and went back out the front door to our laundry room attached to the porch. Then back in, again, to check on Max, then back out to smoke half a cigarette. I'd keep the door cracked to listen and look in on Max while I was outside. In truth, I was a little distracted. I strained to hear the barking again from my front door. Really, I wanted to know that whatever it was, dog or playback, it was still right where I'd last heard it.

I did not get a chance to account for the sound before my son's cries of pain had me rushed back inside. He had a bump on his forehead, which I kissed, and I held him close. "I know what will cheer you up. Max want a bath?"

"Ba! Ba!" Replied my only son, the bump on his head all but forgotten. I carried Max into the bathroom. We stripped while the tub filled. We sat slowly into the warm water. While I bathed him, we practiced saying words together.
"Say 'Fish'."
"Fis!"
"Say 'Boat'."
"Buh!"
"How about an easy one? Say 'Dada'."
"Dada!"
"dAdAAA..."
Faster then I've ever moved in my life, I was upright, albeit wet and naked, with Max in my arms. Someone was inside my apartment, mocking me. I stayed still and listened, my back to the bathroom door. My phone was still in my pants, on the floor near me. I listened. Nothing. Nothing for minutes. Not one footfall, not one groan or sign of movement. Nothing, for so long, that it had become unbearable.

I cracked the bathroom door and peaked through the slit. My living room and kitchen were empty. I took Max into my bedroom, and armed with a short tee ball bat, made sure that, yes, my closet too, was devoid of life.

I told Max to stay here, and walked back into the living room. My front door was open, but only just barely. Had I left it that way when I ran inside earlier? What had I heard just now? Convinced I was losing my mind, I moved to shut my front door. Max toddled out behind me, and screamed.

I only caught a glimpse of what pushed open the front door with two bony, flesh toned legs. I could only see, for a brief fraction of a second, before I fled with my son to the bed room, slamming the door behind me, that this animal stood about three feet tall on all fours. That it was hairless. That it's eyes were too large for it's head, round and bulging. And the last thing that I could take note of, before sheer terror carried me and my son away to hopeful, desperate safety, was that it "spoke".

"dAdAAA!" The same mocking phrase as before. It's jaw hung open as the sound exited it's toothy, dripping mouth. Exactly the same pitch, exactly the same tone. But so much louder. From behind the bedroom door, this creature screamed so loud my son instinctively covered his ears. I'd never seen him do that. I'd never heard him so terrified.

Between the monster's cries for dAdAAA, I could hear it rooting through my apartment. Some of my sons toys turned on, nursery rhymes mixing with the horrific sound of the thing. It's hooves clopped on the bathroom tile, directly across from the bedroom. I whispered to it, to myself really, "Just go..."

Then a few quick snaps on the tile, then a crash against my bedroom door.
"fIIsSs" The creature shouted. Another few steps, and another slam. "buUuuH! bUuuU-OAT!"
It repeated these phrases for what could've been hours, but I'm sure now was mere minutes, while it attempted to bash it's way through the door. I finally screamed back at it.

"I'll f*****g kill you! I'll f*****g kill you, now go!" Tears steamed down my face, my son was hyperventilating. The slamming stopped. But I could hear the animals labored breathing. Deep, but wheezing breaths. And then I heard it make sure I knew that it heard me.

"I'LL F*****G KILL YOU. PUPPY DOG. F*****G KILL. GO. GO. PUPPY DOG. F*****G KILL! GO!"

It went on to repeat these phrases as it turned and slowly walked out of my apartment, on its own accord, back out the front door. I could hear it's steps on the pavement, and I watched through my bedroom window as it slowly, shakily, left my field of view, back towards the fenced in woods.

I ran to the front door and locked it. My apartment had been all but destroyed. Toys had been smashed, shelves thrown to the floor. I later found my phone, shattered, in my pants pocket. My neighbor's had called the police, and when they arrived, started asking questions about a home invader. When I told them it was an animal, and they told me my neighbors heard arguing, my face went blank, my mouth slack. I realized I had no idea how to describe what had happened that didn't make me seem.... Irrational? Unfit to parent? I told them it was a man, with a vicious dog on a chain. My son started to cry again.

My wife doesn't really believe me, but she tries to be supportive. We've since moved to a significantly more urban area. My son is two years old now. He cries every time he hears the words "puppy dog". Admittedly, so do I.

Author's Note

This is my first creative writing piece in close to a decade, and my first attempt to write in a genre made popular on the internet called "creepypasta". The first paragraph is a nod to a genre staple referred to as "skinwalkers". I don't know that the first paragraph is the least bit necessary to the piece, but I thought it might help set tone and tension, even for an unfamiliar reader. Any criticism is more than welcome, and I look forward to improving my style and sharing more work.

Reviews

[Deason]

Ah, there's nothing better than a bowl of creepypasta in the morning! lol

It's been a while since I've read a good creepypasta, is the site itself still active? If so then I believe that this story would add well to the collection. It all in all has the atmosphere of the short horror stories that the genre depicts, and the imagery was really chilling. An audio recording of this would be awesome, and I think that the first paragraph set the proper tone for this genre. Great job overall!