Give It Nothing

So, I just want to say I’m not a nosey person. I genuinely try my very best to mind my own business and I believe that most people are victims of circumstance. Doing something like this isn’t at all like me. But, you have to understand that I did what I did because I felt like I had no choice. I know that in situations like mine you’re meant to turn to the police. But the thing is, I’ve called them multiple times, and they won’t do a thing. For whatever reason, my neighbour hides his dog whenever the police visit. I don’t know how he manages to hide it, but he clearly does a very good job because now the police have said they’ll charge me with harassment if I try to report my neighbour one more time. As far as they are concerned, my neighbour doesn’t have a dog.

To be fair, you wouldn’t be blamed for missing the signs either. His house is an absolute mess and his backyard is even worse. It’s not like his garden has a doghouse with bone-shaped water bowls nearby. There are no chew toys, no dog food lying amongst the piles of trash that fill his yard and home, and you’ll never hear any barking. Looking outside-in, all of the usual signs of a dog being present aren’t there.

In fact, for the first month I lived here I didn’t even know there was a dog next door. That’s pretty weird because I work from home, but I guess it was because I never heard or saw anything and I never had any reason to give it much thought. It was only when I moved my desk one day so it faced the neighbour’s yard that I actually looked outside and saw it.

The poor thing just sits outside, staring at my neighbour’s house. This happens no matter what time of year it is. I’ve seen that dog out there in snow, rain, hail, and blistering heat. As far as I can tell, it never even gets to go inside. Why anyone would get a dog only to confine it in a way that they never actually enjoy its company, I simply don’t know. But outside of a small spot where the poor thing hides below the house just out of sight, it spends its entire time staring at the back wall.

Since then I’ve watched my neighbour come home every day and I see the dog running into its little burrow below the house. I think it might have taken to hiding when the owner comes home because I often see his face poking out between the backdoor curtains to look for the dog as soon as he gets home. It’s a stupid thing to note, but he always looks mad as hell when he does so, with his face all bunched up and his brow furrowed. I know enough about dogs to know that they shouldn’t be hiding from their owner when they come home, and that they shouldn’t be sitting outside no matter the weather. The poor thing looks like some kind of whippet or greyhound cross and I can’t imagine it handles the cold very well and yet it just sits there like some sort of statue.

I took some photos of it sitting outside in the rain through my window but when I spoke to a friend of mine in law enforcement they said it wasn’t even obvious if there was a dog because of how blurry it all looked. That made me uncertain over whether I should call the police because I didn’t know exactly what kind of proof I needed. Other than some strange behaviour and a general suspicion of neglect, I wasn’t even sure how I’d describe the situation to the police. Looking back, I wish I hadn’t let my doubt get the better of me.

Since then I’ve watched my neighbour slowly deteriorate. I always suspected he was an alcoholic but over the last six months it’s just gotten worse. What started with him shuffling home after work, arms laden with thick plastic bags and the odd bottle of vodka clutched in one fist slowly escalated to him wandering home at random times in the middle of the day clutching clear bags filled with booze. Whenever I greeted him he seemed nice enough, but you could see this sort of growing exhaustion in his eyes. Over time they grew bloodshot and I noticed a tremor develop in his hands. It was obvious to me he was an addict and it wasn’t long before the trash in his yard was joined with hundreds of smashed vodka bottles. It started out with the quality named brands and slowly turned into a growing pile of smaller, cheaper spirits that he bought more frequently. Sometimes I’d wake up to the sound of glass smashing and go outside only to see him standing there in the light of his back door, the dog and man staring at one another with eerie intensity. I swear on my life he was throwing glass bottles at that dog, but I can’t say for sure because I never actually saw.

One time I heard my neighbour swearing and I looked outside only to see him clutching his bloody hand, threatening to beat or kill the animal. He’d say horrific things during these rants and the dog would just be sitting there, looking at him blankly. He’d just keep going on about what that thing has taken from him, about how he can’t go on keeping it happy, and how he’d already given it everything. Even though the dog couldn’t understand a word being said, it went great lengths to show that my neighbour didn’t love the dog at all. If anything, he hated it with a passion.

On a hunch I started asking around. I was told that my neighbour lost his child about a year back. It was heart breaking to hear of how he’d found the dog on the roadside and brought it home with the hope of it becoming the family pet. It was just a few months later that his poor daughter went missing and by the time the police finished their search he was left a broken man. It was clear to me that he resents his dog. Perhaps he looks at it and sees the family he lost? I can’t say I blame him for being so mixed up, but I also don’t I condone his actions. The poor dog hasn’t done anything wrong. It’s not like it was responsible for his family’s death!

Still, I felt very much like I was stuck between a rock and a hard place. And I only found the courage to do something when I woke up one night and looked outside to find my neighbour pointing a rifle at the dog. I immediately called the police and then sat and waited, my breath held. It was so tense, watching him standing there, finger on the trigger, but eventually he lowered the barrel and then stumbled back inside, sobbing so loudly I could hear it even through my window.

By the time the police arrived (sirens blaring with all the King’s men in tow because I’d reported a firearm) the man was out of my view completely. The police kicked the door down and found him lying in a puddle of his own vomit, but it turned out he had a license for the shotgun and despite a search of the premises, no one reported seeing a dog. This was even after I’d told them to check beneath the house, saying that just before they’d arrived I’d seen the dog go scampering under there.

Anyway, he had his gun stored correctly and aside from a warning regarding ammunition, he was let off with something as simple as a fine (though the officer did tell me that the man’s house was an absolute disgrace). Afterwards my neighbour became a little cold to me. He never confronted me over the phone call, but he didn’t seem very interested in being polite to me either, ignoring me completely or just grunting in my direction. I can’t say for sure he knew it was me, but I think it would have been pretty obvious since only my house has a line of sight into his garden.

After that I started trying to get close to the dog to see what it was like. I’d wait until I saw my neighbour leave and then sneak out into my yard and call the little guy over. Poor thing, whatever happened to him during his life must have been awful because his behaviour was very odd. He’d respond to my tuts and clicks and wander over to the fence but he wasn’t like a normal dog, neither wagging its tail, whining, or barking. Whenever I peeked through a hole in the wooden planks, he’d be sitting there with those black eyes fixed on me, always knowing where I was.

I must admit it was quite unsettling, but I guess it was just a sign of how traumatised he must have been. He showed no outward signs of affection or interest, like he was numb to everything around him. When I went to put some food through one of the slats he bolted forward towards my hand and I got a bit scared and pulled back at the last minute, dropping the food on the floor. Strangely enough, he never ate the food I left, but I did see my neighbour come home that night and find the pile of kibble I’d left. He immediately stared up at my window and made eye contact and just shook his head. Then I watched as he picked it up and took it inside where he presumably threw it away.

I was furious to think that he was so spiteful he wouldn’t even let me feed his dog! I never saw the poor thing eat, it looked all skin and bones, but here this guy was refusing to let even that little sliver of kindness into that poor creature’s life.

That’s why I knew I had to do something to help that dog. At first I didn’t know exactly what that would be. But a few days ago I went for a walk and on my way spotted a small bag of rat poison sitting half-empty on the open windowsill of his kitchen. Sure, I could have told myself that my neighbour had a rat problem (and he almost definitely did, what with all the trash around), but deep down I knew he planned to poison that dog. He clearly hated it, blaming it for the loss of his daughter, so I decided to wait until he left the next morning and take the chance.

I hopped the fence as soon as I watched him leave, landing in his yard with a wet thud. Looking around I saw the dog, sitting where it always did, turn to look at me with those glassy eyes. I walked up to it and went to pet it but it instantly growled, its black gums and yellow teeth making for one ugly sight. I backed away and tried to figure out how to get the dog away from its home without touching it and on a hunch, I tried the back door and found it open.

Thankfully, while the dog refused to let me touch it, it came when called easily enough. I clicked my tongue and it stood up and walked over, looking up at me with a strange sense of calm. I went into the house first, concerned that I might have gotten my neighbour’s schedule wrong and that perhaps he was lying in wait for me. But there was nothing in that house except for the smell of urine, rotting food, and the waft of half-drunk alcohol and cigarettes. It made me wretch just to go near it, and I practically ran through the home while calling the dog who followed me obediently the whole way. Afterwards, when I shut the door and stood outside catching my breath, I struggled to imagine what on Earth could have made that place smell so bad. It made me certain that I was rescuing that poor dog from a life of disgusting negligence.

I knew I couldn’t keep the dog at my place, of course. It was the first place the neighbour would check and he was a lot bigger than me. I’d taken the effort to call up a friend of mine who had a garage they could keep the dog in. It wouldn’t exactly be the Hilton, but he’d have a bed, heating, and place safe from emotional and physical abuse. It wasn’t easy, but I manage to coax the little guy into my backseat where I drove him to my friend’s. The whole way that dog’s eyes fixed me in the rear-view mirror. It was a miserable, rainy night, and the passing streetlights lit the inside of the car with a strobing effect. I was so shocked and pumped full of adrenaline that sometimes I’d pass an overhead light and see the dog’s face lit up and for just a second it’d look like something else. I can’t say what, exactly, but it gave me one hell of a fright.

Just goes to show how unusual I find all of this: I actually started seeing things. Still, it wasn’t a long drive and before I knew it I’d dropped the dog off with a friend (with a fair warning that it was a biter) and went back home, ready to confront my neighbour. I knew he’d eventually come back, see the dog missing, and come straight to me. And I waited all night with white-knuckle anxiety, only for him to never show. When morning came I was getting ready to check on my friend when it all came crashing down and I just collapsed on my sofa and fell asleep. When I woke up it was seven in the evening and the sun was already setting. I had dozens of missed calls off my friend and in a bit of shell-shocked state I got straight into my car and drove over there.

My neighbour must have followed me to my friend’s house. He just must have. I turned up and banged on the door but got no response. I kept knocking and calling him, trying him, his wife, and even the landline, but no one answered. In the end I went straight into the garage since the side door was open. Inside I found the dog, sitting on the hood of my friend’s car with that same blank passive stare on its face. For some reason the look of it made me uneasy and I decided to leave it where it was. I tried the door to his house and thanked God that my friend was so lax on security because it was open, letting me walk straight from the garage into his kitchen.

Inside, I found the table set, meals laid out ready for teatime. The children’s coats were hanging on hooks, the TV was still playing Cartoon Network, and there were two unmade cups of tea by the kettle. I called out, looking for him, but found no sign of anything. I called the police but they said there wasn’t anything they could do, even after I pointed out that the family car was still in the garage. When I told them I’d taken my neighbour’s dog they asked me if this was the same neighbour who didn’t even have a dog, and then laughed! I could tell they were dismissing me, but I knew something was desperately wrong and I’m still terrified that my neighbour did something horrible to my friend and his family.

I took the dog with me, guiding him back into my car, and drove home to demand answers from my neighbour. Once again, no matter how hard I banged on the door there was no response. I thought he might be hiding or maybe still out (I couldn’t see any sign he’d been home since I’d first stolen the dog but that was no guarantee of anything), so I hopped the fence and this time went to his back door. Again, I banged furiously and shouted after him but there was no reply so I just went straight on in. By this point I was furious and terrified in equal measures, but I immediately began ransacking his home for some kind of clues to what had happened.

God, that place smelled awful. Before, when I’d rushed through, I’d missed all the signs of just how weird that guy was. I found his fridge full of odd frozen meat (couldn’t tell if it was pork or chicken), and upstairs I found a pile of human teeth sitting on the landing (there were dozens and dozens of them, way more than just one person’s). His living room was uninhabitable, filled with trash, and it looked like he spent most of his time sitting in his study drawing the same weird pictures over and over. They looked like some kind of biology sketch showing the same horrible monster but from every conceivable angle.

The creepy thing is that while I went nowhere near that room the first time I ran through that house, I must have glimpsed the drawings from afar because they reminded me of what I’d seen driving to my friend’s place. They were so horrible and weird and so impactful that my tired brain had actually hallucinated that same monster sitting in my backseat! I still can’t quite believe it, but I can’t think of another explanation.

But despite all of that, what really worried me was the pit. You see, in one room (a downstairs bedroom I think) there was what I can only describe as a kind of giant hole. It looked some disgusting fluid the colour of oil and blood had been left to pool on the wooden floor. It had the consistency of bile and had somehow turned the wood into something with the texture of soft mud. Stepping onto it was dangerous because of how slippery it all was, but I got close enough to see that there was a two-foot wide hole going straight down the middle of the floor.

Down, and down, and down. It looked like a hole that led straight to hell. Looking around, in one corner of the room, I saw a pile of clothes that came waist high, and nudging my foot through the sludge I noticed fingernails lying amongst all the gunk. There was even a damn engagement ring lying just on the edge of that pit, something about the way it lay close to four parallel gouges in the wood made me think of someone being dragged into that hole. Combined with the teeth I suddenly realised that my neighbour must have been some kind of a serial killer. He was probably disposing of the corpses straight down the hole! God, I thought, was that what was in those black bags all along? Had he bringing bits of people home? I’d spent nearly a whole year watching him come and go at all sorts of strange intervals, was this explanation? All these questions and way more came flooding into my head but chief amongst them was this:

Had I pissed off a serial killer and led him straight to my friend’s house?

I phoned the police straight there and started babbling about all this crazy stuff. They must have thought I was crazy because they dismissed me with one seriously weak excuse. They told me that they’d found my neighbour, dead from suicide in a park nearby. He’d killed himself with rat-poison, they said. And he’d been dead for over a day and a half. They went on to tell me that made me the last person to see him alive and that they’d want to speak to me, but I just felt numb just hearing those first few words.

Since then I’ve tried calling my friend over and over. I’m terrified that some psycho is out there trying to kill me but nothing I’ve heard makes any sense. Is it possible he faked his death? I keep asking myself this over and over. Meanwhile that dog just keeps sitting on my sofa staring at me. It never barks or wags its tail and I’ve yet to see it eat a damn thing. While I’m happy its safe, I can’t help but feel creeped out by it and my stomach is in knots just thinking about how I might have got my friends in trouble. Even weirder, just this morning I found a child’s sock in a small pile on my kitchen floor. It’s oily and smells just like the pit from my neighbour’s house. It couldn’t possibly be from my friend’s daughter though because I didn’t take anything from that place and it’s not like the dog brought it. I would have seen it in its mouth.

Now all I can do is sit here and fumble over some of those strange notes I took from my neighbour’s house. I keep hoping I’ll find a clue, but all I see are horrible sketches of this disgusting monster and the same thing scrawled over and over and over…

It’s not a dog. It’s not a dog. It’s not a dog. It’s not a dog. It’s not a dog. It’s not a dog. It’s not a dog. It’s not a dog. It’s not a dog. It’s not a dog. It’s not a dog. It’s not a dog. It’s not a dog. It’s not a dog. It’s not a dog. It’s not a dog. It’s not a dog. It’s not a dog. It’s not a dog. It’s not a dog. It’s not a dog. It’s not a dog. It’s not a dog. It’s not a dog. It’s not a dog. It’s not a dog. It’s not a dog. It’s not a dog. It’s not a dog. It’s not a dog. It’s not a dog. It’s not a dog. It’s not a dog.