I Adopted a Stray Dog, but It Wasn’t a Dog at All
The Discovery
I never thought of myself as a dog person, but when I saw the mangy, shivering creature huddled in the alley behind my apartment, something inside me softened. It was small, too thin, with fur matted with filth and eyes that held a quiet desperation. I couldn’t just leave it there, not with the temperature dropping.
I crouched and whistled softly. It flinched but didn’t run. When I reached out, its body was stiff, muscles tense beneath its grimy coat. It didn’t growl or snap, just stared at me with those unnervingly human-like eyes.
“Hey, buddy. You wanna come home with me?”
I carried it inside, wrapping it in an old towel. It smelled of damp earth and something metallic. I figured a good bath and some food would fix it up. My vet appointment wasn’t until the next day, but I fed it some leftover chicken. It devoured the meat without breaking eye contact.
Something Was Off
That night, I woke up to the sound of soft, wet chewing. I sat up, blinking in the dark. The dog—or whatever it was—was sitting at the foot of my bed, hunched over something. My stomach dropped when I saw what it was gnawing on.
A rat. A big one. Its body torn open, pink insides glistening in the dim light.
I gagged. “Oh, hell no.”
I scrambled out of bed, heart pounding. The dog lifted its head slowly, eyes catching the faint glow of the streetlamp filtering through my blinds. Its mouth was too red, too wet.
I flipped on the light. The thing in front of me wasn’t a dog.
The first thing I noticed was its mouth—too wide, teeth too sharp, lips curled in something that was almost a grin. Its limbs were too long, bending at angles that made my stomach twist. The fur that had seemed patchy in the dark now looked wrong, like it had been placed on top of skin that didn’t quite fit.
It stared at me, still chewing, still grinning.
The Escape
I moved to the door, my hands fumbling for the handle. The thing’s head twitched as it cocked to the side, its grin widening. And then it stood—not on four legs, but on two.
I bolted.
I made it to the living room before the lights flickered and died. The only sound was the creak of something shifting in the shadows. Then came a soft, wet whisper:
“Stay.”
I don’t remember grabbing my keys, but I must have, because the next thing I knew, I was outside, panting in the cold night air. My apartment loomed behind me, silent and still. Too still.
The Aftermath
The next morning, I returned with animal control. The apartment was exactly as I’d left it—except for one thing. The towel I had wrapped around the creature was on my bed, neatly folded. A single word was scrawled on it in what looked like dried blood:
“Next time.”
A Lingering Presence
I moved out that same day. I didn’t want to spend another night in that apartment, not after what I had seen. But even after leaving, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was watching me.
At night, I sometimes hear scratching outside my new apartment door. Low, wet breathing. Once, I even found a dead rat on my doorstep, its insides torn open just like before.
I never saw the creature again, but I know it’s out there. Waiting.
And I fear that one night, when I wake up, it won’t just be watching. It will be inside. And this time, it won’t let me run.
