Spot

A cosy Halloween ghost story with cute dogs in it.

Whether you’re a Halloween fan or a Halloween hater, I hope you enjoy this ghost story about dogs.

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Tammy’s dog was called Spot. Call it an unimaginative name but it was accurate. He was small and white all over, save for one brown round spot covering his right eye and ear, and spent most of his time speckled in some kind of mud, food or dirt of unknown origin.

Getting a dog had been the most spontaneous thing Tammy had ever done. She’d been walking past the animal shelter, seen Spot and that was it. Why she couldn’t say: maybe it was his lopsided ears, his lolloping gait, or perhaps the touch of grey whisker around his muzzle that leant an absurd dignity.

Whatever it was, she knew it from the first moment: Spot was her dog.

Spot hurtled into Tammy’s life like a whirlwind, bringing chaos and laughter to an otherwise soulless existence. Because Tammy wasn’t one of life’s winners. She had no friends, no family she wished to speak to, and her job was an office hellhole she longed to escape. Yet coming home and seeing Spot made it all better. He’d run to the door, his tiny tail waggling, and an invisible weight would fall from her shoulders.

But that Friday night, even Spot couldn’t make her smile.

She hadn’t even wanted to go to the pub, but her colleagues had insisted. ‘Just the one,’ they’d said. Why in God’s name had she listened to them?

Because she was tired. Because the week had been crappy and her boss really had in for her. Because, just this once, she wanted to lose control.

So she’d faked with the best of them, necking cheap Prosecco and pretended to enjoy herself. Until the next thing she knew, she was leaning on a lamppost, squinting at her phone and trying not to be sick. She must have ordered a taxi at some point, because here she was, stumbling into the house and almost falling over the doorstep. 

The hallway was spinning. She kicked off her shoes and staggered up the stairs, fighting to maintain her balance. At the top, Spot waiting for her, holding something in his mouth. She groaned.

‘No, Spot.’ Her voice was more slur than words. ‘I’ll play with you later.’

Spot’s ears pricked up excitedly and he wagged his tail. The fact that it was almost midnight and his owner was drunk out of her skull made no difference to him. Hoping he’d get the message, Tammy put her hand on the chew toy and tried to ease it gently from his mouth.

‘Come on, Spot. Drop it.’

But the terrier in Spot was not about to let go. Some equally stubborn streak in Tammy made her tug harder.

‘Spot, drop it I said.’

Spot’s little tail was merely a blur now. His brown eyes shone with excitement, and if she’d had any sense, Tammy would have let go and walked away. But she was far too drunk to think clearly.

She gave one last mighty yank, and the chew toy shot from his mouth. The force knocked her backwards, and she slipped over the top step in her slippery, sheer tights. This is so stupid, Tammy thought, as she tumbled down the stairs, Spot’s terrified cries ringing in her ears. Then her skull went crack and she thought nothing at all.

***

Light was streaming through the windows by the time Tammy woke up. To her great amazement, her head didn’t hurt; in fact, she was completely pain free.

Then she looked down.

She was hovering above her own body, and it was a mess. Her neck was at an impossible angle and there was a pool of dark blood underneath her head. It ought to have been horrifying, yet she only felt detachment, like she was floating out to sea and did not mind it.

She drifted downwards, examining her shocked face, frozen forever. Then, with some trepidation, she placed her hand upon it. It fell straight through.

Well, she thought. That’s something.

Images of paramedics and undertakers flashed through her mind. She could picture them standing over her, shaking their heads and tramping dirty footprints all over the house. It all seemed so unnecessary. All that fuss over a hunk of flesh.

Her gaze drifted across the hallway, her shoes lying upside down, her coat and bag thrown in a heap, the door half open.

The door half open.

Memories of the night before flooded back. Spot’s terrified cries rang in her ears and she felt panic rising, though she had no pulse or breath inside her. She heard a soft thud above her and watched with terror as the red chew toy rolled down the stairs, seemingly of its own volition.

‘Spot,’ she called in a faint voice, more like an extension of her own thoughts than words. ‘Was that you?’

No one responded.

Tammy floated round the house. There were no signs of Spot anywhere; not in his dog bed, the living room, the spare room, the kitchen, or even the bathroom. The only thing she discovered was the fact she seemed able to walk through doors without opening them.

But what did this new ability matter, if she couldn’t find Spot?

She drifted outside. The front garden was undisturbed and the gate was shut, and there were no signs of a little mongrel anywhere. It was as if he’d vanished clean out of existence.

Tammy sailed towards the main road. An image of a small white dog smashing into a car flashed through her mind, and the branches of a nearby sapling began to sway uncontrollably. One snapped off and fell to the ground, rolling to a stop by her feet.

Tammy stared at it. It was as if her emotions, uncontained by her body, had leeched out into the world, causing havoc.

‘Come back here, you daft dog!’

Tammy looked up. For a brief, glorious moment, she imagined it might be Spot. But it was only a Staffordshire Terrier, running towards the fallen tree branch. He picked it up and began dragging it around.

‘Oi, stop that! Come back here.’

The Staffy ignored the calls, instead looking Tammy straight in the eye. He was still looking at her when the owner grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and put him on the lead.

‘Got you, you little monster.’

Then, without a moment’s hesitation, the owner walked straight through her.

The sensation was eerie, like having icy water poured down your back but somehow into your spine. Tammy cried out in protest but the owner kept on walking, as if she didn’t exist. Yet the dog stopped dead in his tracks. He turned around and stared at her once more, his big eyes wide and curious. Then he walked up to her and, to her great astonishment, nuzzled her hand. She felt the warmth of his breath on her skin, and for a brief moment, it was if she was alive again.

‘I’ve lost a dog, just like you.’

The dog wagged his tail. His irate owner tugged on the leash but the animal refused to budge.

Tammy smiled. Perhaps there was hope after all.

***

Two weeks later, Tammy stood in front the dog pens in the rescue centre, trying to catch a glimpse of Spot in the melee. It was evening rounds and the dogs were going crazy, presumably at the sight of humans. Or perhaps it was the presence of a disembodied spirit calling a name only they could hear.

The hunt had proved more difficult than she had anticipated. She’d scoured all nearby roads and houses many times over, then moved on to local parks, vets and the rescue centre. Each night, she retraced her steps back to the flat, in case Spot had somehow found his way back home. On one of her return visits, she’d witnessed the undertakers removing her body, which was an unsettling experience she chose not to think about.

Tamy turned away from the dog pen, melting through the wall until she was in the staff car park. The night was crisp, and she would have shivered, if she was still alive. But she could only drift around listlessly into the dark, despairing thoughts circling like skeletal vultures.

‘Excuse me, young lady. Please watch where you’re walking.’

Tammy started; in her reverie, she’d knocked straight into an old man. He was small with thinning white hair, wore a beige jumper and white shirt, and his little round glasses kept slipping down his nose. She began to apologise profusely, then stopped herself. The old man was looking directly at her.

‘I’m very sorry,’ she said, in a quavering voice. ‘But can you see me?’

‘Certainly I can,’ said the man crossly, clearly insulted. ‘I’m dead.’

Tammy stared in disbelief. She hadn’t considered that anyone else would become a ghost too. Though really, now she thought about it, it seemed far stranger that they wouldn’t.

‘I can see you’re new to all this,’ said the old man, his expression softening. ‘Come along. Let’s have a talk.’

They walked to a memorial bench across the road, in the middle of a small patch of green. On it was the inscription: In loving memory of Ernest, who loved dogs.

‘My very own bench,’ said Ernest with some pride, as he eased himself down.

Tammy perched next to him cautiously. Despite her lack of physical tiredness, she did feel good sitting on the bench, which seemed to emit a strange warmth.

‘My wife got this for me,’ said Ernest, patting the wood. ‘I used to come here with Bobbin.’ He looked wistful for a moment. ‘He was a good dog, our Bobbin.’

‘What happened to him?’

Ernest shrugged. ‘My wife passed a year after I did, so he went to the shelter.’

Tammy wasn’t sure how to ask the question. ‘And your wife. Is she …?’

‘She wouldn’t have liked it down here,’ Ernest said, matter of fact.

They both stared across the road, watching the streetlamps turn on. After a moment, Tammy silently took Ernest’s hand and patted it. The feeling surprised her; it was so… human.

‘I’m Tammy,’ she blurted out. ‘And I’m looking for my dog.’

She turned her head, trying to gauge Ernest’s reaction. He didn’t seem to find it silly; in fact, his expression was deadly serious.

‘I’ll help you,’ he said, pushing his slipping glasses back over the bridge of his nose. ‘We’ll start in the morning.’

***

At exactly 9am the next day, Ernest leapt from the bench with the sprightliness of a far younger man.

‘We’re going to the library,’ he announced, marching briskly forwards.

Tammy wasn’t sure why Spot would be in a library, but she didn’t argue, taking step behind Ernest. It was only in the daylight that she noticed that Ernest was wearing his carpet slippers outdoors, but she decided it was best not to mention it.

The library was already open when they arrived, and Tammy wondered if Ernest was going to look in the Yellow Pages. But he was marching over to the computer area.

‘We just need to wait for someone to go on Facebook,’ he said.

It didn’t take long. A middle-aged woman, who was doing a job application, started scrolling on her phone.

‘Aha.’ Ernest’s eyes twinkled. ‘Now my dear, think of something that makes you cross.’

Tammy shut her eyes and pictured her brother’s smug face. The phone juddered. Then, with a sudden frenzy, it began to scroll. The screen froze on a neighbourhood group.

‘Stupid thing,’ muttered the woman, swiping the screen.  Seeing it was frozen, she dropped it on the table and returned to her application.

Tammy looked at the phone. Underneath an advert for hairdressers was a post that read: ‘WATCH OUT FOR DOG THIEVES.’

‘Guy in a black jacket and jeans,’ Tammy read aloud. ‘That could be anyone.’

‘Yes, but look there.’

Ernest pointed at the comments. Someone else had posted grainy picture of a man in a leather jacket, holding a dog in his arms. Her heart stopped. It was hard to tell with the quality of the image, but something in her gut told her it was Spot.

‘That’s him,’ she said hoarsely.

‘I see.’ Ernest’s voice was slightly strange. ‘Well, we’d best go and find him.’

***

The last known location of the dog thieves was Beechley Park, a large dog park on the far west of town surrounded by beech trees. It backed onto an A road, which took you onto the motorway. The perfect place to make your getaway if you were thinking of stealing someone’s beloved pet.

‘Keep your feelings in check,’ advised Ernest, glancing up at the swaying beech trees. ‘We need to keep a low profile. Don’t want to startle any dog thieves.’

We’re invisible, Tammy wanted to say. That’s the definition of a low profile.

Instead, she watched the dog walkers strolling up and down the path, oblivious to their fate. Which one would be next? Perhaps that blue eyed husky, or the yapping chihuahua?

‘Look over there,’ Ernest whispered.

Tammy looked across the park. A man in a battered leather jacket was talking pleasantly to a woman with miniature bulldog. As he began to tickle the dog under the chin, he suddenly made a grab. The woman yanked on the lead, but it was too late; the man had already disconnected the lead from the collar and started running for the road, the dog wriggling in his arms.

The woman swore loudly and tore after him, sprinting across the park with a surprising turn of speed for someone in crocs. But the thief was faster; quick as lightning, he dived out of her reach and leapt in his car. He grinned and flipped his middle finger at the screaming woman as he sped off, the bulldog yelping in the back.

He was not alone. The bulldog peed on Tammy’s leg, crying and crying, while Ernest sat ramrod straight, keeping his eye on the sat nav. Tammy watched as the dog pee slipped through her and trickled down the back seat.

‘Urgh!’ The driver scowled. ‘Filthy animal.’

You’re the animal, Tammy thought with venom. The car tires began to squeak.

‘Careful,’ Ernest warned.

Tammy restrained herself, and held her hand out to the bulldog. It took several minutes, but the animal eventually began to calm down, sniffing at her hand.

‘That’s it. Good boy.’

The dog thief pulled into a driveway. He got out the car and pulled the passenger door open with such force that Tammy instinctively jumped. She shivered as he reached through her to grab the dog, and the animal whimpered ever so slightly, as if to say, why are you letting this happen?

White hot fury flooded Tammy’s body, sending electric jolts into the car. It began to shake wildly.

‘Let’s get out of here,’ whispered Ernest.

They floated through the car and into the house, and the foul smell of frightened animals kept in too small a place hit them immediately. If she’d been alive, Tammy probably would have thrown up.

They followed the disgusting scent upstairs, following it to a closed door at the far end of the corridor. As they approached, Ernest put a hand on her shoulder.

‘Whatever’s in there, stay calm,’ he whispered. ‘We can’t arouse suspicion.’

Tammy nodded. They glided through the door with ease and entered a room of mostly empty dog cages. One held the terrified miniature bulldog, its tail between its legs, while another contained a tiny mound of white fur. Only the slightest movement every now and then suggested it was still alive. The creature lifted its head a little and Tammy saw the brown spot around the dog’s closed eye.

Heart in her mouth, Tammy put a ghostly finger through the bars. Very slowly, the dog moved its head and licked it.

Guilt and relief swirled in her stomach. He was alive… and yet the state of him.

She looked at Ernest, whose face had gone pale, even for a ghost. He seemed unable to speak. They stared at Spot trapped in his stinking cage. How many other animals had been treated like this? How many owners had this bastard put through hell?

Tammy reached out and took Ernest’s hand. His rage flowed into hers, darker in hue but no less powerful. And then, at a silent signal, they unleashed it as one.

The doors of the metal cages burst off their hinges, falling to the ground with a clatter. Tammy rushed forward and scooped Spot in her arms. Never again would she allow anyone to take him away from her; he was hers now, forever and ever.

Spot whimpered and nestled closer, his rough fur burying into her ghostly chest. She could feel him panting heavily, his little heart hammering like a jackrabbit.

‘Tammy,’ Ernest shouted. ‘Look out!’

She looked up. The thief was standing in the doorway holding a baseball bat, his scrawny body somehow expanding in the space. For a moment, Tammy thought he was about to hit her. But then she saw the terror in his eyes.

‘The dog’s floating,’ he mumbled. ‘The dog’s bloody floating.’

‘Tammy.’ Ernest was by her side. ‘Take Spot and the bulldog, and get them as far away as you can.’

‘But what about you—?’

‘It doesn’t matter. I need to finish this ugly business, once and for all.’

He raised his arms. The lamp above them started to swing like a pendulum, the bulb flashing faster and faster. Tammy grabbed the bulldog and slipped round the gibbering dog thief, clutching both animals to her chest. Even though both animals were small, it was difficult carrying them both safely down the stairs. She wished she had a lead but there was no time to go back. The air sizzled and smelled like burnt hair. She sprinted as fast as she could out of the front door, chest burning as she ran. Spot dug his claws into her and the bulldog began to whine louder than ever. She ran on, not looking back, not even stopping to see if Ernest was following.

She made it to the end of the street before the house burst into flames.

***

Tammy gazed at the mess on her kitchen floor. Spot had his head over a bowl of dog biscuits, which he was devouring with great gusto. She’d managed to successfully tip them into his bowl by remembering the sight of Spot in a cage, but had almost ripped off a kitchen cabinet in the process. She would have to dial it down a bit now she was incorporeal.

She’d toyed with the idea of keeping the miniature bulldog too, but it seemed unfair to deny him the chance of reuniting with his real owner. So she’d sat on a park bench, waiting for the woman to return. It had been an emotional reunion; the woman had bawled her eyes out, then hugged the dog so tightly it began to wheeze.

Spot, having finished his meal, barked and tottered over to her, bringing her out of the memory. He had recovered incredibly well over the past few days, but was still scrawny as anything. He nudged her foot and she felt a great warmth in her chest.

Then she remembered Ernest and the warmth died.

Tammy sat on the messy floor, massaging Spot’s back. If she was a better person, she’d go back to the burned house and look for him. But she couldn’t bring herself to do it.

Can ghosts die?

She distracted herself from the thought by trying to make Spot’s ball fly across the floor with her sadness. It trembled a little, but not much more. Clearly sadness wasn’t great for telekinesis.

As if in agreement, Spot woofed loudly.

‘I know, I’m an old misery guts.’

Spot woofed again, looking over her shoulder. Tammy turned around.

Ernest was standing behind her. He looked the same as he always did, only perhaps a little greyer, a little older, a little less there.

‘Well hello there,’ he said. ‘It’s been a long time.’

Spot looked at the stooping old man in his beige jumper, his glasses slipping, the last strands of white hair clinging to his head, and his tail wagged like anything. His brown eyes shone with pure joy, the sort of delight that a dog only shows the people it knows and loves most in the world.

Tammy went up to Ernest. She took his hand and squeezed it tight.

‘Stay here,’ she said. ‘He’s our dog, after all.’

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This is probably the most heart-warming thing I have ever written. I don’t know whether to be pleased or disgusted with myself.