# The Black Dog

From New-York Tribune (24 Jul. 1892): pp. 19.
There was a ceaseless rumble in the air as the heavy raindrops battered upon the laurel thickets and the matted moss and haggard rocks beneath. Four water-soaked men made their difficult ways through the drenched forest. The little man stopped and shook an angry finger at where night was stealthily following them. "Cursed be fate and her children and her children's children! We are everlastingly lost!" he cried. The painting procession halted under some dripping drooping hemlocks and swore in wrathful astonishment.
"It will rain for forty days and forty nights, said the pudgy man, moaningly, "and I feel like a wet loaf of bread, now. We shall never find our way out of this wilderness until I am made into a porridge."
In desperation, they started again to drag their listless bodies through the watery bushes. After a time, the clouds withdrew from above them, and great winds came from concealment and went sweeping and swirling among the trees. Night also came very near and menaced the wanderers with darkness. The little man had determination in his legs. He scrambled among the thickets and made desperate attempts to find a path or road. As he climbed a hillock, he espied a small clearing upon which sat desolation and a venerable house, wept over by wind-waved pines.
"Ho," he cried, "here's a house."
His companions straggled painfully after him as he fought the thickets between him and the cabin. At their approach, the wind frenziedly opposed them and skirled madly in the trees. The little man boldly confronted the weird glances from the crannies of the cabin and rapped on the door. A score of timbers answered with groans, and, within, something fell to the floor with a clang.
"Ho," said the little man. He stepped back a few paces.
Somebody in a distant part started and walked across the floor toward the door with an ominous step. A slate-colored man appeared. He was dressed in a ragged shirt and trousers, the latter stuffed into his boots. Large tears were falling from his eyes.
"How-d'-do, my friend?" said the little man, affably.
"My ol' uncle, Jim Crocker, he's sick ter death," replied the slate-colored person. "Ho," said the little man. "Is that so?"
The latter' s clothing clung desperately to him and water sogged in his boots. He stood patiently on one foot for a time. "Can you put us up here until tomorrow?" he asked, finally. "Yes," said the slate-colored man.
The party passed into a little unwashed room, inhabited by a stove, a stairway, a few precarious chairs, and a misshapen table.
"I'll fry yer some po'k and make yer some coffee," said the slate-colored man to his guests.
"Go ahead, old boy," cried the little man cheerfully from where he sat on the table, smoking his pipe and dangling his legs.
"My ol' uncle, Jim Crocker, he's sick ter death," said the slate-colored man.
"Think he'll die?" asked the pudgy man, gently.
"No!"
"No?"
"He won't die! He's an ol' man, but he won't die, yit! The black dorg hain't been around yit!"
"The black dog?" said the little man, feebly. He struggled with himself for a moment. "What's the black dog?" he asked at last.
"He's a sperrit," said the slate-colored man in a voice of somber hue. "Oh, he is? Well?"
"He haunts these parts, he does, an' when people are goin' to die, he comes and sets and howls."
"Ho," said the little man. He looked out of the window and saw night making a million shadows.
The little man moved his legs nervously.
"I don't believe in these things," said he, addressing the slate-colored man, who was scuffling with a side of pork.
"Wot things?" came incoherently from the combatant.
"Oh, these —er— phantoms and ghosts and what not. All rot, I say."
"That's because you have merely a stomach and no soul," grunted the pudgy man.
"Ho, old pudgkins!" replied the little man. His back curved with passion. A tempest of wrath was in the pudgy man's eye. The final epithet used by the little man was a carefully-studied insult, always brought forth at a crisis. They quarreled.
"All right, pudgkins, bring on your phantom," cried the little man in conclusion.
His stout companion's wrath was too huge for words. The little man smiled triumphantly. He had staked his opponent's reputation.
The visitors sat silent. The slate-colored man moved about in a small personal atmosphere of gloom.
Suddenly, a strange cry came to their ears from somewhere. It was a low, trembling call which made the little man quake privately in his shoes. The slate-colored man bounded at the stairway and disappeared with a flash of legs through a hole in the ceiling. The party below heard two voices in conversation, one belonging to the slate-colored man, and the other in the quavering tones of age. Directly, the slate-colored man reappeared from above and said: "The ol' man is took bad for his supper."
He hurriedly prepared a mixture with hot water, salt, and beef. Beef-tea, it might be called. He disappeared again. Once more the party below heard, vaguely, talking over their heads. The voice of age arose to a shriek.
"Open the window, fool! Do you think I can live in the smell of your soup?"
Mutterings by the slate-colored man and the creaking of the window were heard.
The slate-colored man stumbled down the stairs, and said with intense gloom, "The black dorg'll be along soon."
The little man started, and the pudgy man sneered at him. They ate a supper and then sat waiting. The pudgy man listened so palpably that the little man wished to kill him. The wood-fire became excited and sputtered frantically. Without, a thousand spirits of the winds had become entangled in the pine branches and were lowly pleading to be loosened. The slate-colored man tiptoed across the room and lit a timid candle. The men sat waiting.
The phantom dog lay cuddled to a round bundle, asleep down the roadway against the windward side of an old shanty. The specter's master had moved to Pike County. But the dog lingered as a friend might linger at the tomb of a friend. His fur was like a suit of old clothes. His jowls hung and flopped, exposing his teeth. Yellow famine was in his eyes. The wind-rocked shanty groaned and muttered, but the dog slept. Suddenly, however, he got up and shambled to the roadway. He cast a long glance from his hungry, despairing eyes in the direction of the venerable house. The breeze came full to his nostrils. He threw back his head and gave a long, low howl and started intently up the road. Maybe he smelled a dead man.
The group around the fire in the venerable house were listening and waiting. The atmosphere of the room was tense. The slate-colored man's face was twitching and his drabbed hands were gripped together. The little man was continually looking behind his chair. Upon the countenance of the pudgy man appeared conceit for an approaching triumph over the little man, mingled with apprehension for his own safety. Five pipes glowed as rivals of a timid candle. Profound silence drooped heavily over them. Finally the slate-colored man spoke.
"My ol' uncle, Jim Crocker, he's sick ter death."
The four men started and then shrank back in their chairs.
"Damn it!" replied the little man, vaguely.
Again there was a long silence. Suddenly it was broken by a wild cry from the room above. It was a shriek that struck upon them with appalling swiftness, like a flash of lightning. The walls whirled and the floor rumbled. It brought the men together with a rush. They huddled in a heap and stared at the white terror in each other's faces. The slate-colored man grasped the candle and flared it above his head. "The black dorg," he howled, and plunged at the stairway. The maddened four men followed frantically, for it is better to be in the presence of the awful than only within hearing.
Their ears still quivering with the shriek, they bounded through the hole in the ceiling and into the sick room.
With quilts drawn closely to his shrunken breast for a shield, his bony hand gripping the cover, an old man lay with glazing eyes fixed on the open window. His throat gurgled and a froth appeared at his mouth.
From the outer darkness came a strange, unnatural wail, burdened with weight of death and each note filled with foreboding. It was the song of the spectral dog.
"God!" screamed the little man. He ran to the open window. He could see nothing at first save the pine trees, engaged in a furious combat, tossing back and forth and struggling. The moon was peeping cautiously over the rims of some black clouds. But the chant of the phantom guided the little man's eyes, and he at length perceived its shadowy form on the ground under the window. He fell away gasping at the sight. The pudgy man crouched in a corner, chattering insanely. The slate-colored man, in his fear, crooked his legs and looked like a hideous Chinese idol. The man upon the bed was turned to stone, save the froth, which pulsated.
In the final struggle, terror will fight the inevitable. The little man roared maniacal curses and, rushing again to the window, began to throw various articles at the specter.
A mug, a plate, a knife, a fork, all crashed or clanged on the ground, but the song of the specter continued. The bowl of beef-tea followed. As it struck the ground the phantom ceased its cry.
The men in the chamber sank limply against the walls, with the unearthly wail still ringing in their ears and the fear unfaded from their eyes. They waited again.
The little man felt his nerves vibrate. Destruction was better than another wait. He grasped a candle and, going to the window, held it over his head and looked out.
"Ho!" he said.
His companions crawled to the window and peered out with him.
"He's eatin' the beef-tea," said the slate-colored man, faintly.
"The damn dog was hungry," said the pudgy man.
"There's your phantom," said the little man to the pudgy man.
On the bed, the old man lay dead. Without, the specter was wagging its tail.
This work was published before January 1, 1929, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
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