Horrid 14. Something is Digging Up the Childhood Pets

It started with Sparky, the golden retriever we buried under the oak tree in '98. I found his grave disturbed, but it wasn't a predator looking for a meal. The dirt was pushed outward, as if something had fought its way to the surface. That night, I heard a wet, scratching sound at the back door. I peered through the glass and saw a shape—not a dog, but a composite of rotted fur, garden twine, and the plastic toys we’d buried with him.

It wasn't just Sparky. Every hamster, every bird, every goldfish I’d ever flushed was out there, stitched together by a mindless, subterranean hunger. They don't want to play. They want the years back. They are standing in the yard now, a grotesque mosaic of "Gone Too Soon," and they are digging a new hole. It’s long. It’s narrow. And they are looking at my bedroom window with eyes made of glass marbles and dried mud. They’re not looking for a pet; they’re looking for a playmate to take back down into the dark.