AN: Every small town has a Dog. No one knows who owns it, but that fucker will start up at ass o' clock in the morning every. Night. ALWAYS.
The dog is howling. Jonathan can't say when it started. He knows it will stop, and that he will notice that it's stopped around three in the morning, but there's no saying if it stops then or if he just registers the silence then.
He knows he's been lying here, listening to the dog (who does it belong to?) go on and on and on, for about an hour. He feels bad for it. But also annoyed, because what good is howling doing you, Dog?
He registers the silence at three AM. It feels like it's been quiet forever, but who knows.
The howling is closer. A new dog? Or maybe the Dog got out and found a new place to go on. And on. And ON. Or maybe the wind's carrying it.
There's noises in the attic. Squeaking of wood and mice both, the groaning of a house settling under heavy trunks. Sometimes it sounds like there's whispering upstairs, but only if he holds his breath, and only for a moment. It's probably Granny's skirts, or the heavy drapes rustling in the breeze.
Outside, the Dog goes on. It's the only sound out there.
It's in the yard.
Well. It's on the property, anyway-he sat up and looked, but there was no dog. No light at all, save for the fireflies. The green dots float lazily towards the fields, but there's no sign of a dog. He's tempted to go out and try to find it, maybe take it home or at least keep it here until daylight, but now that it's closer, it sounds…not right. He can't put his finger on it, but he doesn't think going out there is a good idea.
Maybe it'll be there in the daylight. Everything's safer in the daylight.
The Dog is quiet tonight. Jonathan doesn't realize how grateful he is until he's lying in bed, fingers tracing the familiar stitches on his quilt, eyes in that half-open state that predates passing out cold.
There's a noise in the hallway, and at first he thinks it might be Granny, up and about. But it doesn't sound like her.
Click-clack, click-clack.
Sounds like a dog's nails.
He frowns and rolls over, half-wishing he hadn't shut his door. But then again, maybe it's for the best, that his door's shut.
When he wakes up at a little past five, he opens the door. He doesn't remember if the gouges in the wood have always been there. He's sure they have. He'd know if they were new, he's the one who cleans up here.
Yes, they've always been here. Just like that damn Dog always howls at night. It's just the way things are around here.
THE END