The dog came back. It always did.
He saw it first in the alley behind McGuire’s, slinking in the dark like an oil slick. Thin, hungry, watching. That was months ago. Maybe longer. Time blurred when it was near.
He tried ignoring it. Didn’t work. It followed, waiting just outside his vision, a shadow stitched to his heels. When he turned, it was gone—until it wasn’t. One night, it stood under the streetlamp outside his apartment. Silent. Motionless. The air smelled of burnt hair and something worse.
He stopped sleeping. When he closed his eyes, he heard it breathing. Ragged. Wet. Close.
Then came the hunger. A hollow, gnawing thing inside his ribs. He ate and ate, but it never filled. The weight melted from his bones, leaving him weak, dizzy. Still, the hunger chewed at him.
He saw it everywhere now. In store windows, in puddles after the rain. Watching. Always watching. It wasn’t just following anymore. It was inside, curled up in the empty space where his hunger used to be.
One night, he saw its eyes in the mirror. Not behind him. Not next to him. In him. They blinked when he blinked. His stomach twisted.
He didn’t fight when it opened its mouth.
Didn’t scream when it crawled through.
He was finally full.
