Chapter 3: The Dog in the Casket

The wake was set up in the backyard. Because Grandma died so strangely, she wasn’t allowed in the house.

We set up folding chairs and a table under the old maple tree. The neighbors brought casseroles and pies, but nobody touched the food. The air was heavy with grief.

Her funeral was big. Grandpa had the boys slaughter our only pig—the one meant for Christmas.

The smell of roasting meat drifted through the yard, but it tasted like ashes in my mouth. Even the grown men wiped their eyes when they thought no one was looking.

Lots of cousins stayed up. Kept vigil all night.

We sat around the fire, telling stories about Grandma—how she’d chased a bear off the porch with a broom, or baked the best apple pie in the county. The laughter was thin, but it helped.

Two nights passed. Nothing odd happened.

We all breathed a little easier, thinking maybe the worst was over. Mrs. Mallory stayed close, watching the woods with sharp eyes.

Mrs. Mallory said it was because there were so many people. Their presence kept the spirits at bay.

She said spirits didn’t like crowds, especially ones full of love and noise. I clung to her words, hoping she was right.

On the third night, when it was time to cremate Grandma—

The fire was built high, crackling and bright. We gathered around, holding hands, the snow falling soft and silent.

A wild wind whipped up.

The flames danced, sparks flying. The trees groaned, branches swaying like they were alive.

"Don’t burn her! That’s not Aunt Martha in the casket. I saw her in the woods while I was out!"

Dale burst in, out of breath.

His face was wild, eyes wide with fear. "I swear, I saw her!"

Mrs. Mallory quickly ordered the boys to open the casket. She barked out orders, her voice cutting through the chaos.

Her voice cut through the chaos. The boys hesitated, then pried open the lid.

Sure enough, inside was Duke, soaking wet.

His fur was matted. Eyes closed. The sight made my stomach twist.

Mrs. Mallory said, "This wild spirit’s got real power. Looks like we’ve met our match. He wants to be treated like a person."

She shook her head, muttering under her breath. "Never seen the like."

She pulled a steel knitting needle from her sleeve and drove it into Duke’s forehead. The dog thrashed, then went still.

The movement was quick, almost gentle. Duke shuddered once, then lay quiet. The air felt lighter, somehow.

Grandpa was confused. "What’s that for?"

He frowned, voice thick. "What’s that supposed to do?"

"It locks the spirit. People have souls, dogs have wild spirits. The steel keeps it from causing trouble."

She spoke with authority, as if she’d done this a hundred times. The rest of us just stared, not sure what to believe.

"People say cats have nine lives; dogs carry three spirits. Still gotta be careful—he can still hurt folks."

She glanced around, making sure everyone was listening. "Don’t let your guard down."

Grandpa just nodded.

He wiped his hands on his jeans, eyes distant. "Whatever you say, Mrs. Mallory."

Mrs. Mallory then told everyone to burn the casket and everything in it. The fire roared, smoke curling into the night sky.

The fire roared, smoke curling into the night sky. We watched until nothing was left but ashes.

That night, the barking of dogs echoed from the farms, woods, and river. The sound was mournful.

The sound was mournful, a chorus of loss and longing. I pressed my pillow over my ears, but it didn’t help.

After the funeral, Grandpa walked Mrs. Mallory out. Gave her twenty bucks—a lot in the 1980s.

She tucked the bill into her coat, nodding in thanks. "You did right by your family, Frank."

She walked a few steps, then turned back.

Her boots crunched in the snow. She paused, glancing back at the house, her face serious.

"Frank, you’re a good man, so I’ll give it to you straight."

She pulled a small bottle from her pocket, pressing it into his hand. "Keep this close."

She handed him a little white bottle. Cloudy liquid inside.

The bottle was cool and heavy. Grandpa turned it over, squinting at the label.

"This is bear oil. It keeps wild spirits away. Take it home, split it up—give each family member a bottle. Duke’s spirit will only come for your family. This’ll keep you safe."

Her words were calm, but her eyes were worried. She squeezed Grandpa’s hand before letting go.

Grandpa’s hands shook as he took it.

He tucked the bottle into his coat pocket, nodding. "Thank you, ma’am."

"That wild spirit’s lost one of its three lives, but it’ll still cause trouble. Be careful."

She looked at him hard, making sure he understood. "Don’t take any chances."

Grandpa nodded in thanks.

He dipped his head, old-fashioned courtesy. "We owe you, Mrs. Mallory."

Back home, Grandpa poured the bear oil into two bottles—one for me, one for Uncle Travis. The rest he sprinkled around the yard.

The oil smelled sharp, almost sweet. Grandpa walked the perimeter, muttering prayers under his breath. He handed me my bottle, closing my fingers around it tight.

"Grandpa, why don’t you keep one for yourself?"

I looked up at him, worried. He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

He said, "I don’t need it. Duke can’t hurt me." His face was lined with worry.

He ruffled my hair, looking away. "I made my peace with that dog a long time ago."

Uncle Travis nudged me. "Grandpa’s old. He doesn’t care about his own life anymore."

He said it quietly, not meeting Grandpa’s eyes. I wondered if it was true.

"Is that true, Grandpa?"

I waited, hoping he’d say no. He just stared out the window, silent.

Grandpa didn’t answer.

He patted my shoulder, then turned away, lost in thought.

He told us, no matter what, to always keep the bear oil on us.

He pressed the bottle into my hand, eyes serious. "Promise me, Eli."

"This stuff could save your life."

His voice was soft, almost pleading. I nodded, tucking the bottle into my pocket.