Chapter 5: Dogs, Old Friends, and Shadows

Before heading out to find help, I told Mr. Harrison to gather up a dozen black labs—good, loyal dogs—to guard Ellie’s bedroom. In America, you want to keep out trouble, you get a dog. If people are like houses, the Watchdog fragment is the guard dog—simple as that.

I gave them one last warning before I left: "Lock every door and window, keep you and your wife inside, and let the black labs patrol the yard. No visitors, no neighbors, no one comes in until I get back."

Mr. Harrison nodded so fast I thought his head might fall off. He hustled to lock up, double-checking deadbolts, even sliding a chair under the doorknob for good measure.

Outside, the house manager rounded up the rest of the staff, stationing them at every gate. I perched on the fence, tail flicking, scanning the yard. The dogs shivered when I passed, dropping to their bellies, ears flat. Their tags jingled as they circled the house, paws thumping on the old wooden floors.

But I knew these were just regular mutts—good for a bark, not much else against real trouble. I’d need more than fur and teeth to keep Ellie safe while I was gone.

I had to call in an old friend. Not exactly a people person, but trustworthy in a pinch. We’d grown up in the same stretch of woods, same wild days, but he’d always been a bit shaggier, hair white as a snowdrift even when we were kids. He couldn’t mimic voices like I could—just chirped "liuliu" like a busted smoke alarm.

Worst of all, he ate as much as I did, if not more. We’d split up a thousand years ago just to keep from starving each other. Each of us took a different hill and never looked back.

Wonder how Whitehead’s doing these days. If he’s gotten any less greedy.

Took me an hour to cross town to Shadow Hill, passing shuttered shops, the wind carrying the distant rumble of a freight train. The moon hung low, streetlights flickering like tired eyes.

When I found Whitehead, he hadn’t changed a bit. Soon as he saw me, he laughed loud enough to scare a flock of crows off a telephone wire:

"Hahaha, One-Eye, I didn’t expect you to be doing worse than me! Look at you, skinny and small, almost like that three-headed chicken, hahaha!"

I rolled my eye, but it felt good to see a familiar face—even if it was one that never stopped teasing. Nowadays, spirits and monsters were experts at blending in, hiding among the living. Made it hard to trust anyone.

After a bit more ribbing, I told him about Ellie. Without another word, he got up, fur bristling, and followed me back toward the Harrison place.

Halfway there, my nerves prickled. Something felt off. Whitehead, seeing me tense up, nudged me with his shoulder:

"Relax, One-Eye. I’m not some mutt from up north—I’m good luck. Your godkid’s safe with me."

I managed a small nod, picking up the pace. The sidewalks were deserted now, porch lights snapping off one by one as we passed. Even the neighborhood cats had vanished.

As we approached the house, the porch light flickered, and for a second, I thought I saw a shadow dart across the lawn. The sun was gone and the whole block was shadowed and still. No sign of any street vendors, just locked doors and blinds pulled tight. A cold wind whipped around the corner, swirling dried leaves into frantic little dances. The air smelled sharp and fishy, like rain-soaked concrete mixed with old pennies.

The silence was so thick you could hear your own heartbeat. Not a single bark from the yard—not even a growl. Whitehead and I exchanged a worried glance and vaulted the fence in one leap.

The yard was a mess—black fur, splatters of blood, and the dogs themselves, huddled in corners, eyes wide, tails tucked. They whimpered at our approach. The front porch was streaked with muddy footprints, child-sized, pressed in two perfect rows, leading straight through the open front door.

The night wind pushed the door curtain back and forth, slapping it against the frame with a nervous rhythm, like someone knocking to get in.

My stomach dropped—something had already gotten inside.