 My father was killed by a dog. My mother went out one day and left my father alone. I was at childcare. She came home to find him dead in a pool of blood. My grandparents arrived minutes later to find her shocked and unseeing on the floor while an ambulance took him away. I was only a few months old at the stage of life where I relied on others for everything. In many ways, this was a mercy. It meant I remember very little of that time, and especially of that day. All I remember is a gut feeling in a red floor. They say smell is our number one sense for memory. And that may be true. Whenever I smell blood, I feel uneasy. But that could be a common trait too. A survival trait. Who knows? The downside of my reliance on others was that my mother had to juggle dealing with dad, me, and the rest of her life at a time when she was grieving. We ended up getting a lot of help from my grandparents over the next couple of years while it all got sorted out. We moved house almost straight away. Mom's idea. I guess she didn't want the dog to find us. I found out about the dog when I was old enough to start asking questions. I must have been about five. Most of the children I knew had two parents, and I wanted to know why I didn't. Mom didn't like to talk about it, and she avoided my questions. To an adult, this would have suggested a subject to leave alone. But children have little tact and are curious. So I pestered and pestered, and eventually my grandparents sat me down and told me that my mother didn't like to talk about it, but that the dog had got him. And it was a great tragedy. They wouldn't tell me anything more, said it was best not to talk about. I told my mother about this conversation, and she sighed. Yeah, well, she said, not quite meeting my eyes. The dog runs in your family. When I asked my grandparents if this was true, my grandfather nodded. When I asked what it meant, he gave me a long look and said, I'll tell you this today, and then we're not going to talk about it anymore. Okay. I said, okay. The dog is, uh, he seemed to search for the right word. It's a thing. We call it a dog. It's not nice. It runs in the family. But what does that mean? I asked impatiently. Grandpa sighed and rubbed his head. It means the dog attacks people. It's out for blood. It kills people. It killed your father. We don't know why it affects our family so much. But it does. It comes for you when it wants and stalks you, follows you, and when it's good and ready, it kills you. His face grew red as he spoke. I didn't say a word. My own cousin was killed by the dog and several others. You know, my mother's brother survived the war. He was at the front. He got back home with not a scar on his back. Four years in France survived it all, then killed by that bloody dog. He met my eyes. We don't talk about the dog. Do you know why that is? I shook my head. It attracts it. The more people who think about the dog, the more people talk about it, the easier it is for it to hear you. That's what my father told me, and his told him. And now I'm telling you. Don't think about it. Don't talk about the dog. Do you understand? I nodded silently. He patted my head and said, good lad. I became afraid of dogs. It was not long after that that my grandparents got window. He was a chocolate lab with a waggy tail. The first time I saw him, I squeaked in fright and ran and hid behind my mother. My grandfather asked me what was wrong. The dog. I cried tearfully. It runs in the family. He laughed awkwardly. Not that kind of dog. He said, Oh, I thought, as I stroke the dog, not a Labrador. Despite my promise to grandpa, I would occasionally slip up and ask about the dog. I always got the same answers. The dog got him. What kind of dog, not a Labrador, a black dog, like the Grim, drifting through our bloodline like a hunter sniffing out victims and devouring them. A ravenous beast as slick as night. A wild dog, Winston's dog. I didn't know who that was. I assumed it was the great, great uncle I'd been told of. There were plenty of dogs in our family history. Judging by the myriad of photos my grandparents kept. I thought that was pretty stupid. Having so many dogs, when one is stalking your family and killing off generations, it could have hidden in plain sight. But then, don't some tribespeople have dogs to protect them from wolves? Or was that a childhood misunderstanding? Whatever the family curse was, it terrified me. My heart jumped a little every time I saw a dog matching the vague description of the Grim. I tried not to let it show. Like grandpa said, we don't talk about the dog. But occasionally, a question would slip past my lips. Or I'd involuntarily jump at the sight of my neighbor's big, Alsatian. It was obvious something was not quite right. Once I saw a friend fall from his bicycle and hurt his leg, he covered the wound with his hands as we walked home. When he pulled them away, they were bloody to the forearms. And I shook from head to toe as I remembered the defensive wounds on my father's body, where the sharp toothed beast had harmed him. My grandparents were generally very patient with me, but it must have been hard for them. I was the living reminder of their son. And here I was, too young for tact, my silence on the matter kept by fear and a promise. It came to a head one day when I mentioned my aversion to the dog next door. My grandmother started crying, and my grandfather took me aside. He told me it was time to stop asking about it. Full stop. No exceptions. I was a big boy now when I had to hold myself together when I saw a big dog, and I had to stop letting questions slip out when it was on my mind. Did I want the dog to come? Did I want it to get grandma? No, no, I didn't. Don't talk about the dog. I put it out of my mind for a few years. My primary school friend stopped asking when I told them I wasn't supposed to talk about it. And by high school, people had just the right balance of social awareness and pubescent awkwardness not to ask. I kept my promise for a long time. Mom fell in love again and married my stepfather. They have two children. I got over my fear of dogs and made friends with the dog next door. Things seemed to be going well. I didn't talk about it for a long time until I was 17. And my cousin Daryl was killed at work. Daryl was a long haul trucker. He was only in his 20s. In the middle of the night, he'd lost control of his vehicle and driven into a wall killed on impact. Grandma and grandpa sat together at the funeral, white faced and tight knuckled as they clutched each other's hands. My mother and my aunt and uncle sat together, trying only to get through the day. I sat alone. My mind was worrying. It didn't make sense. Daryl was a competent driver. Yes, it was nighttime, but he was not in a dangerous area and conditions on the road were fine. My aunt and uncle said he'd not been himself lately. But that didn't explain him losing control of the vehicle. The truck itself was in good shape. And the resulting investigation found nothing wrong with it. So how? So as not to upset my family, I turned to the internet for answers. I searched stories of car accidents and strange occurrences expecting to find something about road conditions or a manufacturing problem. Instead, I ran across something that made my blood run cold. The black dog. Pesitant, I clicked on it. My childhood fears tumbled toward me pixel by pixel in Indiana Jones ball of ever growing questions. Some people said it was a specter sent to warn of danger. Others said it was a mind trick and illusion brought on by exhaustion or those isolated hours on the road. Whatever it was, many people had experienced it. A driver would see a black dog dart across the road in front of them. It usually proceeded in accident or worn the driver to take a break. The driver in the second instance would usually find they had avoided an accident when they got back on the road. For some, it was a curse for others. A blessing. The dog either caused the accidents or saved you from them. And there was another thing I'd heard of before the grim. An outgoing link led me to another page full of information about this shaggy black dog who appeared to warn of danger, often creating a feeling of impending doom before an accident. An omen, apparently folklore, but I knew better. I was horrified and furious. I'd tried so hard not to talk about it, but the dog had still come and he'd got daryl. I wanted answers and yet I'd promise not to ask. So I said nothing. I kept it all to myself as I'd been taught adamant the dog wouldn't find me or my mother or my stepfather and siblings, or my grandparents, or anyone else I cared about. And that worked fine. It was slightly stressful, forcefully pushing the thought of the dog out of my head as soon as it came. But I managed it. I had to manage it. And then when I was 21, my uncle went missing. He was found on the moors after a few days. At the bottom of a cliff face, there were bite marks on him. Wild animals, they said. Not unusual in this area. But certainly unusual for them to get that close. They generally kept away from people. He must have seen it coming because my aunt said he'd left a note at home saying he loved her very much. He'd been distant these past few months, she told me. Nervous, withdrawn, like Daryl was, she said, wiping her eyes. I can't help but wonder if she didn't finish the sentence. My mother gathered her up and led her quietly to the other room at that point. But I knew what she was about to say. The dog. I can't help but wonder if the dog got him. I wasn't all that close to Daryl. We saw each other occasionally and talked a little, so it was no surprise I hadn't thought too hard about the change in behavior prior to his incident. But now I knew there was a connection. It made sense with what I'd been reading about the grim, a sense of impending doom, nervousness, withdrawal. My uncle and cousin knew the dog was stalking them and tried to keep it quiet to protect others. That note. And it hadn't been enough. I saw red. My hands began to shake. I very nearly threw up right there at the kitchen table. Ryan. My mother appeared in the doorway. She looked me up and down. Are you all right? I nodded. Sheila and I are going to take a quick walk. She needs to get out of the house for a few minutes. Are you coming? I, uh, I need a bit of time to myself. Can I stay here? You sure? I nodded. She came over and kissed me on the cheek. Okay, we won't be long. After the front door closed, I sat for a while to calm myself down, then headed upstairs. That dog had taken quite enough of my family members. If there was anything I could find to stop it, I was sure I'd find it there. My uncle had been a keen diarist. Not only that, but he was supremely interested in family history. It probably would have been him I'd peppered with questions as a child if we'd seen them more often. I felt guilty about that now. Maybe if we had, it wouldn't have happened. His diary wasn't hard to find. Top drawer in the bedside table next to a bottle of prescription pills and a pair of glasses. I flipped to a random page. Saw Vincent today. Lunch at the king's arms. I tried another page. Sheffield United. Bolton Wanderers 4-0. And another. Dogs got me. My heart leapt. That was it. A scrawled paragraph at the end of a recent entry. It was messier than the rest of the writings, as though he decided at the last minute to write in it. The diary continued. The dogs got me. It never goes. Sometimes I forget for a while, but it always comes back. Every creek of the floor boards when the house is empty. Not empty. In the emptiness lurks the dog. Winston was right. Winston again. A relative. The diary continued. Not supposed to talk about it, my ass. Need to tell someone. At the same time, don't want to burden anyone with the knowledge. Smile and get on with it. Maybe it'll go away. Like a cold. Looked into family history surrounding it. Appalling number of people. Wrote them down. All lies at the funeral homes. Made it easier for the families. But we know. Always the same. Get you so weak you can't run anymore. Chokes you. Tears you open. Sometimes it chases you off something. Nippin' at your heels. And you just? Well, not anymore. I was interrupted by footsteps coming up the driveway. Shit. I pulled my phone out quickly and took a photo of the page. What was that he said about writing down names? In the back of the diary, there was something that looked like a list. I photographed that too. The key turned in the lock and my heart jumped. I closed the diary, shoved it hastily back in the drawer and ran for the bathroom. I got there just in the nick of time. When we got home, I went to my own room and looked at the photos. They were blurry, but mostly readable. The list was in two columns, a number of names and dates from the past hundred or so years, and a short section of notes on each one. It took me a minute to realize what I was seeing. But when I saw the first few letters of my father's name in a pixel smudge at the bottom of the screen, I realized what it was. There were 23 almost all male, all aged between 15 and 43. My uncle had clearly done his research. In the right hand column, the notes read things like drowned in river, allegedly witnessed falling from bridge seen running earlier behavior changed in preceding months. The causes of death were all the sort of things someone might say to cover up a supernatural curse, drowning, poisoning, 19 of them had been confirmed to have had some behavioral changes in the months before their deaths, withdrawal, disrupted sleep, self isolation. So they knew, I reasoned, they knew the dog was coming for them. And as though my interest in the dog had become a beacon, so it came for me. It started small. I found it hard to sleep one night. That was fine, that happens. But then I found it hard to sleep another night, too. And another, I simply couldn't get the thoughts in my head to quiet down enough to do it. I tried sleeping pills for a while, which helped at first, but made me feel sluggish during the day. When I stopped taking them, the sudden insomnia came back. Is it insomnia, if you can sleep for a long time, but it takes ages to actually fall asleep, whatever that's called. I had that. I'd go to bed at 10 or 11, and not drop off until three or four in the morning, then I'd either wake up for my alarm at seven feeling like I was made of grumpy molasses, or sleep until the afternoon, at which point the cycle would start all over again. Then I started seeing it everywhere. Not obviously, but in little things. A large black dog appeared in the local dog park. They'd never been there before. I walk past it every day. Or the poster at the local shop advertising dog walking. A huge black dog stared at me from the page. I saw less daylight now that my sleep schedule was so messy, and little flickers of light would sometimes appear in my vision. The internet suggested they were illusions brought on by tiredness. But I couldn't help but wonder. I was sure I saw the dog there sometimes out of the corner of my eye. But whenever I looked, it became a trick of the light. And I'd look over my shoulder several times before fully shaking off the feeling I was being watched. I found myself losing concentration over simple things. My music, my sport, I'd be in the middle of an activity and my focus would just wander off somewhere. I was in the middle of a game and just watch the ball shoot past me. It was an easy shot. I knew I ought to kick it. I knew I should want to kick it. But it just didn't occur to me to even try. I was so zoned out, I barely noticed. I came to when I heard the ball hit the floor. My teammates were staring. I felt embarrassed. My mate Josh came jogging over and clapped me on the back, saying, Hey, you alright? Yeah. Yeah, I answer. Sorry, I just, I don't know, zoned out. Evans, what was that? shouted our coach. Sorry, I just, I got distracted. He nodded. Alright. Go again. I shook my head and jogged off. I saw Josh give me a concerned look, but the game continued and I ignored it. Just a momentary lapse in concentration happened sometimes. But it started happening more and more. The things I was passionate about took a backseat to this feeling of irritation. I grew techie and antisocial. I'd never been an introvert. But I began avoiding people. I kept thinking I was imagining things because I'd have nightmares about the dog. I'd feel uncomfortable around people I used to enjoy spending time with. Because I was scared they noticed something was off about me and ask about it. And how could I explain? What was I going to tell them? Oh, sorry, guys. I know I've missed a couple of practices here and there. Sorry, I didn't come see you play on Saturday. It's just I think a dog is stalking my family and killing people and I've been a bit worried about it. No, who on earth would believe that? On the way home in the dark, I heard an animal walking behind me. When I looked back, there was no one there. But something rustled and I saw a pair of eyes glinted me from the park bushes. Josh asked if I was all right when I jumped in fright. He said it was a fox, but I wasn't so sure. I became more and more withdrawn. I shut myself in my room and would only come out when necessary. My family grew worried. But I insisted I was fine. I didn't want to make them worry about the dog. If they were thinking about it, as grandpa had said, maybe it would come for them. And I would have killed my family. The thought made me feel sick. So I distanced myself from them because I didn't want them to suffer like I was. I was asleep deprived mess, unable to focus on things I cared about. I came home from a football game and dropped my muddy kit in the corner of my room. I stared at it. I needed to wash it. If I didn't, I couldn't play next week. But I just couldn't get my legs to lift me up and walk me to the laundry. I couldn't sleep. But I'd make myself. And then in the morning, I couldn't get up. If I didn't go outside, I figured the dog couldn't get me. Sometimes in the half awake delirium, I thought I could hear it snuffling around outside, trying to get in. I hid beneath the covers. I could have cried, but the stress had zapped me of my energy. And I lay silent. One night, I heard my mother on the phone. She spoke in a low voice. I listened. I'm not proud of it. I'm worried. She was saying back turned to where I stood on the stairs. He's listless. He's behaving like his father did before I perked up my ears. What if? What if he goes the same way? I stepped back. My stomach dropped like I'd been kicked. She knew she knew about the dog. But if she knew I was in trouble, or she was in trouble, she was thinking about the dog, which meant it could get her. No, you didn't talk about the dog first rule, just like the first rule of Fight Club. Keep your mouth shut about the dog, or it'll get you. And I hadn't shit, shit. The next day I went to my grandparents house. Grandpa would know what to do. He'd held off the dog for 70 years and must have known every trick. Maybe he knew how to get it to leave you alone. I knocked on the door. Grandma answered. She looked happy to see me. I hugged her. Hello, Ryan. Hi, Grandma. I pulled my backpack over my shoulder. Is Grandpa here? I wanted to ask him something. Through there, love. Thanks. Is everything all right? Yeah. Yeah, it's fine. How about you? She smiled. Oh, you know, I nodded. I didn't know mere months after losing your second son with the child of your first son standing like a ghost in front of you. I never wanted to know. But I nodded anyway. Grandpa was in the dining room reading. He looked up when he saw me. Hello, Ryan. Hi, Grandpa. How are you? I'm all right. How are you? Oh, you know, I nodded and dropped my backpack to the floor. I pulled out my phone open to the diary pictures and handed it to him. What's this? He asked. I don't know how to say this. So I'm just going to cut straight to it. I said, I think it's stalking me. He frowned. What? That that animal is stalking me. What animal? The dog. I stared at him. He looked concerned. His lack of immediate understanding made me suddenly nervous. Winston's dog, the wild dog, the black dog on the road, the dog that killed dad, and Daryl and Uncle Kieran, the dog that chased your cousin Martin off a bridge and left him like a fucking rag doll in the creek. I know you told me not to talk about it, but I think it's stalking me. Grandpa had gone white. Oh, no. He said, no, Ryan. I'm tired. I said, cutting him off. Exhaustion lined my words with anger. It's draining me of my energy. I can't fall asleep at night, but then I can't get up in the morning. I'm distracted. I'm bored. I'm constantly looking over my shoulder. I feel like shit. Actually, Ryan. He began, but now I was practically yelling. Music and football aren't the same anymore, because I'm so paranoid. I feel like crying. I'm scared. I don't want it to get me or mom or you or the others, but it got 23 people already at least. And you said not to talk about it, but I thought about it. And I took secret pictures of Uncle Kieran's diary because he thought about it too. And I know that's messed up, but I did it. I'm sorry. And I read things, and now it's noticed me. And I'm scared I'm going to be next. And you know what? Part of me. Part of me actually doesn't care because then this would stop. At least it would just stop. I froze. Grandpa was crying. That was weird. Grandpa didn't cry. Grandpa. He shook his head and just wept. I felt instantly guilty. I went to pat him on the shoulder. I'm sorry. I said, I didn't mean to. He sniffed and wiped his eyes. I'm sorry. He said, it's okay. No, I mean, you were just a child. What? You were so young. We didn't want you to know the dog. I didn't like what was happening. I felt the footing had changed all of a sudden. Hesitantly, I said, you told me never to talk about it. He held his head in his hands. I shouldn't have told you that. It doesn't stop it. It makes it worse. I don't understand. We thought you knew. We thought you knew what it meant. Grandpa, you were so young. We thought you'd figure it out. He shook his head. Ryan, your dad wasn't attacked by a dog. He killed himself. I felt the ground fall away underneath me. What? He cut his wrist. They say men usually pick something else, but he took a knife from the kitchen and he ran a finger down his arm. I don't know if he wanted to. I don't know. I felt sick. Like my world was spinning out of control. I had to grab the kitchen bench to keep a hold of myself. But but the police came. Mom said they they found him in a pool of blood and the dog I slid gently to the floor. The dog was we didn't want to tell you the truth. I'm so sorry. I thought you'd figure it out when you're old enough. When I was a child, you didn't talk about it. I shouldn't have told you that. But the dog I said he must have seen the understanding on my face because he sighed apologetically. It's genetic, a predisposition in our family, not everyone, but especially the boys. He got on the floor and hugged me. His arms were strong. I let him hugged him back, absorbing that news with a weight of a dozen lies. I understand now. The dog was never a dog.