The Regimental Dog Is Buried By The Gate And He Still Does The Rounds Certified True by readers
Every guard on that gate for sixty years has heard the same thing at the same hour: claws on concrete, going away from you.
Every guard on that gate for sixty years has heard the same thing at the same hour: claws on concrete, going away from you.
Fresh flowers. Weeds pulled. The glass jar washed. And nobody in my family does it, because there is nobody in my family left but me.
I was nine. I told my mother a man in a hat came at night. She went white and asked what kind of hat. I have never forgotten her face.
I meant to text my group chat that I was lowering my expectations and would flee if he chewed weird. I texted the date instead. Somehow it became the best opening line of my life.
Block C, ground floor, the stretch between the drying room and the fire door. Two hundred men, one unspoken agreement.
Our store ran out of bananas for four hours because a truck broke down. One man took it as a personal catastrophe, and I said the one thing you must never say to an angry customer.
A cousin dropped me from her wedding to save a seat, in a cruel little message. Three weeks before the date her venue fell through, and the only barn in the family was mine.
Three scratches, low down, at 05:40. That was his time. He did it for nine years and he did it for six weeks after he was gone.
The stretch between the two towns is nineteen miles with nothing on it. I have driven it a hundred times at night. Only once did the same porch light appear three separate times, each time farther ahead of me.
My wife and I were stuck naming our daughter for weeks. Then one quiet night we opened our mouths at the same instant and the same name fell out. I still feel it in my thoughts.
A barn owl came to the same fence post outside my uncle's window three nights running. On the third night it turned its head to look inside. He was gone by dawn.
My four-year-old kept waking at night pointing at the corner, terrified of a lady only he could see. I told him it was a dream. Then I woke frozen, and she was there.
He had done forty years. He was not superstitious. He had a list, and the list was in the back of his diary, in pencil.
He sat two feet from me for a year with a jam jar of human teeth on his desk. When I finally reported it, I was the one who got a talking-to about being a team player.
My brother and I lived alone in our late grandmother's farmhouse for a summer. Every night we counted two people going up the stairs, and every night we heard three.
At the end, my grandmother gripped my hand and whispered that my mother could never have children, and that I had been "chosen," and to check the blue box in her closet. My mother has never confirmed it.
I know the name because my grandmother was born there. It is under a reservoir. He gave me directions to it, and they were good directions.
New in town, I took a babysitting gig, walked into the unlocked house at the right address, and looked after two kids for thirty minutes before the actual parents came home.
Four generations of brides in my family have lost their wedding rings within a year. My mother thought it was carelessness. An old letter suggested it was a promise being kept.