I've never told anyone this. Not even my wife. She thinks I got rid of the old dog because he got sick. But that's not why. I got rid of him because he didn't bark. I know that sounds crazy. It was November. 1998. Just a Tuesday night. It was pouring rain, the kind that rattles the gutters. I was up late paying bills in the living room. Around eleven thirty, there was a knock at the front door. Not a normal knock. It was slow. Rhythmic. Heavy. Bam...[ bam... bam.
I remember looking at the clock. Who comes to the door that late in a storm? My dog, Buster-he was a German Shepherd, afraid of nothing-he usually went crazy at a knock. But he was whining. He had backed himself under the sofa, tail tucked, shaking. That was the first warning, I guess. The air in the room felt, heavy. Like the pressure drop before a tornado. I felt sick to my stomach just walking to the door.
I turned on the porch light and looked through the peephole. There were two kids standing there. Boys. They looked young, maybe ten or twelve years old. They wore hooded sweatshirts, grey and tan, with the hoods pulled up. They were just standing there in the pouring rain. Not shivering. Not moving. Just staring at the door.
[ Story continues in the full game... ]