The Thing That Ate Mrs. Wilson’s Dog
by Sophie Bachard

Janet sat up in bed, slammed down her book, and folded her arms to show that she was having none of Hugo’s nonsense tonight. “And what in hell do you think you’re doing?”

Hugo finished lacing up his running shoes, pulled up the zipper on his red tracksuit, and hung a stopwatch around his neck. “I’m going jogging as usual,” he said in a cheery singsong voice. He did a few knee bends, hands on hips.

“You go out tonight and I swear I’ll leave you.”

“No, you won’t,” Hugo said, still limbering up.

“It’s dangerous out there.”

“Come with me then,” he said, being flippant.

“You know full well what I mean,” she said. “What about that monster that’s out there roaming the streets at night? It’s killed three people already. People in better health than you, for all your stupid jogging. Do you want to make me a widow at forty-five? That thing ate Mrs. Wilson’s dog last night. Left the bones by the roadside. You know as well as I do that the police are advising residents not to go out at night unless absolutely necessary.”

“Monster indeed.” Hugo laughed. “Really, Janet, you believe anything. If there was a monster out there roaming, as you put it dear, everybody would lock their doors at night and stay in.”

“They are locking their doors. And staying in. It’s only idiots like you who want to go out there.”

“We’re not living in the middle ages,” Hugo said, trotting to the bedroom door. “Monsters do not roam London streets at night anymore. Unless they are of the human variety, that is. Well, goodnight dear, I shall be about an hour.”

“If you go out that front door tonight,” Janet shouted after him, “I’ll pack a bag and leave you.” She snatched up the hardback and threw it at him.

Fleet of foot, Hugo slipped into the hall just in time. He stood there laughing as the book thudded against the door.

“You’ll be here when I return,” he called back cheerily. “Bye bye, darling. Don’t wait up.”

#

Janet listened to his footsteps drumming down the stairs. When the front door slammed shut, she tossed back the covers and swung her legs out. “Ignorant pig-headed fool,” she muttered. She checked her watch (five past midnight) and stomped over to the window, lifted the net to look out. There he was, jogging towards the corner of the street. In the middle of the road, too. Does the silly idiot want to be run over?

Hugo glanced back briefly, gave her a cocky little wave. She dropped the net back and turned away, her blood boiling. “I’ll teach him to leave me on my own every night,” she muttered.

#

Jogging on the spot, Hugo tilted his head back and expanded his chest by deeply breathing the cool, invigorating night air. He scanned the deserted junction of this hushed suburb. No cars, no people, not even a solitary cat prowling neighbourhood walls. A compendium of stars twinkled frostily in the fresh, crisp transparent air, and beyond the park gates, a low webbing of mist drifted between the oaks, dew-icicles shimmering on the grass. Deserted. Just the way he liked it. Grinning, Hugo started his stopwatch, and headed into the park.

Following the lamp-lit pathway, he determined not to let those stories about a monster roaming the city change his habits. He had never felt unsafe before; muggers knew joggers carried nothing valuable, he thought. All that monster business was media hysteria, and all the better for him, since it cleared the park by frightening away other joggers.

Ten minutes later, he cut across the damp grass, soaking the hems of his tracksuit bottoms. As he picked up his speed, he felt energised. When it came to night jogging, he knew he’d never listen to any argument against it.

As he passed by the tennis courts, however, he thought he saw something. A flicker of movement. Without slowing his pace, he glanced across, but could make out nothing but branches swaying. A sudden gust shook the canopy, sounding like a rushing train.

Just the wind, he thought, until another movement caught his attention. Something dark slipped behind a nearby tree. His own shadow?

No, shadows did not lurch and shamble of their own accord. The dark figure trotted clumsily across the wet grass, coming down the slope on Hugo’s right, pacing him.

God no, he thought, what if it’s the killer the police are after? But weren’t the three killings miles from here? The sweat coating Hugo’s body turned cold, as the muscles in his legs trembled, although not with fatigue. He could see the street at the end of the path where moonlight reflected in a puddle. But the safety of the street seemed too far away. Janet has given you the willies, that’s all. There is nothing there. Don’t look back. Clenching his teeth, he pushed himself harder.

#

 

 

Before long, the pace took its toll. He began to pant. He felt a frightening dragging sensation in his heart. He was too scared to slow down, though. His running shoes slapped against the concrete footpath, but he could also hear the rapid footsteps of someone—or something—on the pathway pursuing him.

He reached the edge of the deserted tennis courts and snapped his head back. He stumbled in shock. Almost collapsed in fear. The figure lurched beneath a lamp towards him. Tall, gangly; a bat-like face; pug-nose; pointed ears; evil twisted fanged-mouth; long arms ending in claws; clawed feet; black prickly skin. Janet and hundreds of others who swore blind the hellish thing existed were not crazy after all. He knew all the gory details of the killings from the articles in the local paper. Janet read them aloud to him in an obvious attempt to scare him out of his habitual night jogging.

My God, he thought, the bloody thing is real after all, and it’s coming after me.

He clutched his chest as a sudden painful spasm burned there, and then he spun back to the path, sprinting off. But every time he glanced back, the thing seemed to have gained on him. It looked so cumbersome, so heavy and powerful, that he wondered how in hell it could run so fast.

He knew if he stopped, the police would find very little of his body after that thing had finished with him, and so, resisting the agony bolting across his chest, he kept on running. He could see the end of the path now, the street twenty yards ahead, the wrought-iron fence pulsing as his vision jumped with the force of the blood beating in his temples.

#

 

He reached the end of the street at last. Almost doubled-over in pain, he stumbled forward, his chest so tight that he could hardly breathe. He staggered over the curb, turned to look back. There was no sign of the thing chasing him. His head buzzed, and his vision almost blacked out. He groped for support, his knees buckling. Leaning against the cold stone, he breathed rapidly. “Wait until I tell Janet,” he moaned.

#

Janet squatted by the tennis courts, out of sight behind a creaky oak tree, gasping to catch her breath. She was sweating inside the monster suit. The smell of the rubber material of the suit mixed with her breath and sweat to emit an awful fume-stink, and some of the fibres, she was sure, had slipped inside, making her itch. She couldn’t wait to get home to remove the horrible thing.

She waited until Hugo had started off again, before she came out from behind the tree and turned back onto the path to head home. He’s a better runner than I had ever given him credit for, she thought. Fast, too. Although she had been afraid of pushing him too hard towards the end, intending only to scare him, which she could see had worked. Still, she felt a little guilty about it now.

Soon back at the house, she let herself in and trudged upstairs to the bedroom, pulled off the suit’s head and tossed it onto the bed. The clammy rubber clung to her sweat-slicked skin as she peeled off the rest of the suit. Horrible thing, she thought, glad she would never have to wear it again. The fancy dress shop she had hired it from could have it back tomorrow, thank you very much, since it had served its purpose. She stripped out of her clothes, dumped them on the floor, and headed for the shower. Hugo might get suspicious if he climbed into bed with her smelling like a hog.

Well, I’ve probably saved his life, she thought.

The bathroom lights turned black as she stepped under the steaming spray, which fizzled out.

Sugar! The fuse box again. Hugo was supposed to fix it. What a time to blow. Shivering in the nude, she reached out blindly for the towel rack, wrapped a towel around herself, and pushed open the door. She headed back to the bedroom. By the faint amber streetlight glowing through the thin window net, Janet found the drawer where Hugo kept a torch. She snatched it up, flicked it on, and followed its beam out to the hall. Even though she thought she knew what had caused the lights to cut out, she still felt tense. Goose bumps rose up along her thighs.

She crept down the stairs, suddenly frightened of encountering somebody in the dark. She stopped midway, gripped the banister, sure that she had heard something.

She was right. A crash reverberated through the house. It sounded as if it came from the kitchen. Janet felt torn between running back up to hide or rushing straight down to the hall where they kept the only phone in the house. One call to police and ... but maybe it was Hugo.

She called his name. No answer. But if it was Hugo, why would he come in the back way?

Another crash. Now she was certain it was the kitchen, as she heard cutlery crashing to the linoleum. The faulty fuse box was located next to the basement door in the kitchen, which meant if a burglar was in the house, maybe he had deliberately cut the lights. She raced down the stairs, reaching for the phone.

But one glance through the hall archway stalled her. Her arm trembled as she directed the torch up at the figure towering there. It was far too big to be Hugo. She couldn’t hold back the scream.

The thing was more hideous than the suit she had worn. Its head resembled a spider’s pinched, craven face, but compressed into an even uglier looking maw, with beady little savage eyes. It looked like a giant walking bat, with claws, its skin like the flesh of a decaying prickly pear.

She had just enough time to marvel at the truth behind the monster killings, before it took a swipe at her. She dodged, stumbling back. Then she turned and ran down the hall, looking for somewhere to hide. She could hear it growling as it lumbered after her.

#

 

 

Hugo’s chest still ached when he reached the house, although his heart rate had slowed and the sharp pains were giving way to dull throbs. At least, he thought, my breathing is almost back to normal. He approached the front door on tired legs, unlocked it, and stepped inside. But almost immediately he came to a stop, surprised by the darkness.

He’d forgotten about the faulty fuse box, and raced upstairs, calling Janet’s name as he burst into the bedroom, where he discovered the monster mask on the bed. “Bloody cow,” he grumbled.

An idea sprang to mind. Two can play at this game, he thought, pulling on the rubber mask, which still reeked of Janet’s breath and sweat. Looking through the eyeholes gave him a strange sensation of being only partly visible. He found the rest of the suit crumpled on the floor next to her abandoned underwear. “Always an untidy cow,” he said under his breath. But he was chuckling to himself as he pulled the suit over his tracksuit and zipped up the sides under his armpits. It was a tight fit and he felt massive, bloated. He put his arms out in front of him and lurched forward, zombie-like, making experimental growling sounds as he stepped into the hall. He was going to get his own back good and proper. He thought he knew exactly where to find Janet. She must be down in the kitchen trying to fix the fuse box, and probably calling him all the names under the sun for not fixing it when he had promised to do so before Christmas. Well, she would get what was coming to her.

He was grinning inside the suit as he reached for the banister rail. The steps looked perilous in the gloom, and he started down cautiously, placing his big, webbed, rubber monster feet gingerly. It was like wearing flippers, although he reached the bottom steps without falling over. He was still grinning hard and practicing his growl when Janet came suddenly haring around the hallway towards the stairs.

Hugo could see enough from the light coming through the glass panels of the front door to see that Janet’s face and naked body were bloody and marked, and that she was bleeding from her nose and mouth. She looked crazy; her face was wild and contorted with fear. She was shrieking at the sight of the monster on the stairs.

Hugo’s smile vanished. His eyes opened wide when he saw the huge carving knife coming towards him. Janet drove it into his chest with both hands, grunting wildly. She pulled it out and stabbed him again, slicing into his heart. This time she was snarling.

Reaching out a claw towards her, he made gurgling sounds as he tried to speak. “It’s me. Janet it’s me.” But instead of words, blood bubbled from his mouth. He fell back, collapsing against the stairs, the huge kitchen knife jutting from his chest.

#

Janet staggered back against the front door, breathing hard. She slid down onto her bum. Trembling, she felt too giddy with her victory to move. It didn’t matter. That thing couldn’t harm her now. She would wait here for Hugo to come back.

Or so she thought, until she heard moaning and then crashing coming from the lounge on her right. The thing she believed she had killed was moving towards her, swiping furniture aside with its huge claws. She looked back in confusion at the thing on the stairs, saw the human hand dangling on the step where the claw had fallen off, and realised her mistake. She didn’t have the strength left to scream.