The Black Dog of Hanging Hills
The man lay in his cool bed, staring at the small window across from himself, sunlight yet to shine through the frosted glass. He hadn’t slept that night, nor the night prior. He had become a nocturnal animal of sorts, one that didn’t sleep or eat regardless of the time of day. One that could only exert enough energy to breathe, to live off only the most bare essentials.
There was very little that befell the man in the night. Perhaps that made things worse. He’d heard tales of specters traversing the homes they once inhabited, searching for that world they once held dear, a world forcefully stripped from them, turned colder and darker from their absence. He wanted so desperately to hear those whispers, to hear the subtle gentle creaking of the old cabin floors echo throughout the home, anything but the steady everpresent howling of wind whipping against the far too thin walls. Yet after weeks of this new ritual he’d created, no new sounds presented themselves.
Using what energy he could conjure, he got himself out of bed. A change of clothes was too much for the day, so he simply pulled on his deeply aged boots. Before exiting, he made sure to meticulously arrange the bed, setting the pillows in an exact orientation, with the large woven blanket tucked beneath them. It held no benefit for the man, especially on that day, but it was something she would do daily, so it only felt right.
The sky began to fade into a deep rich navy blue by the time he made it to the horses. They whined anxiously as he pulled open the heavy metal gate. He recoiled at its touch, shocked at how freezing it was. He examined a thick layer of frost that had crusted over the handle, now being partially obscured by the smoke emanating with his breath. This wasn’t too surprising given just how cold it really was, but it had been relatively warm just the day prior. The early transition of summer to fall, hot to cold, nature having trouble making up her mind, yet today she chose with aggression.
The horses tranced out of their enclosure, barely giving the man enough time to open up their door. He watched as they made their way out, slowly vanishing into the thick layer of fog that blanketed the field.
The man moved with intent, slow, methodical, each step feeling like a hundred, dragging himself around the property, completing seemingly meaningless tasks. His tasks were a little different today however. He left the stable doors open, he poured the remainder of the seeds they had into the chicken’s coop, left anything he could find for the goats to eat in a large pile. He filled every container with fresh water, and gave each animal a small pet as he went. He took his time this morning, taking whatever moments he could to enjoy the calm serenity of this land, nestled gently between a valley of hills.
He’d always wanted to live in the city, become a professor at Yale, enjoy a more elegant glamorous lifestyle, but she wanted this. The exact plot of land down to the inches of perimeter, and the man knew better but to deny her. He began to think of that possible life, began thinking of where he would be had he chosen that path, whether she would have joined him, and whether he’d be happier without ever knowing her.
---
After taking some time within his shed beside the barn, he made his way towards the surrounding woods, a large bundle of rope now slung across his shouler. He made his way to the path he had traveled many times before, always with company, but not that day.
The path had never guided the man for more than half an hour, but given his lack of sleep, this would turn into an all day venture. No matter how far the man walked, he’d not seen the fog dissipate. It kept its overbearing presence the entire way, making the path a hazy dream past a few yards ahead.
He took breaks every fifteen minutes or so, sitting on a nearby log, or even on the ground if he must, taking the time to observe his surroundings, and let the rope rest at his side. The man knew he’d only traveled a quarter of the way, but wasn’t discouraged. He had all the time in the world then, and wanted to use it contemplating his situation. Where he was, what he wanted, and what he planned on doing, all running through his mind, these engraved anxieties desperately wishing to be shown, yet never cracking his stoic front.
As he sat, deep in thought, something creeped into his field of view. Emerging from the fog, was a small, black dog. The pup was unlike any the man had seen before, completely unsure if it were a wolf or a wild mutt. It was no larger than a foot in length, leaving no imprint in the dirt as it went. Its long black hide was spotless, not a spec of dirt appearing on him. It took its strides with cat-like grace and precision, slowing itself as it approached the man.
While he had spent most of his life hunting in woods not too different from these, the man felt on edge. He had read very recently a story of a black dog lurking this very trail. While the man couldn’t recall the specifics of said story, he was able to recite one line that stuck with him in particular. “And if a man shall meet the Black Dog once, it shall be for joy; and if twice, it shall be for sorrow; and the third time, he shall _____”. The man could not recall what happened in that third sighting.
He was willing to open his mind to the prospect of spirits, partially out of necessity those few weeks, but a tall tale such as this one was too absurd for the man to even consider. Yet there stood a black dog, now staring directly upon him.
Its piercing green eyes were locked with his own, no fear, no anger, nothing at all really. The pup just stared. The man stared back, trying to get a read on the situation, now feeling confident that it was a wolf pup of some kind, meaning the mother would be near. With this in mind, he reached into his jacket pocket, and grabbed hold of a large serrated knife he’d packed with him, just in case.
The pup did not mind the man's movements, seemingly unbothered by his presence at all. It slowly turned its attention to the rope beside him, creeping forward to give it a sniff. Before it could get too close, the man kicked the bag, the pup backing off as he did. It gave the man a sharp exhale through its nose, a spray of smoke releasing as it did.
The pup continued off the same way it was headed, leaving the man to watch as it slowly vanished into the fog. He waited some time before moving forward, somewhat shocked at the absence of the mother, yet kept the knife in hand, just in case. The man found it odd at the time, that despite its clear actions, he couldn’t hear a single sound from the pup. Not its steps, not even its breath reached the man's ears. Perhaps he was misremembering, a far better acceptance for the man than the alternative.
---
The man was able to travel another half hour before taking his next break, the fog now thicker than he’d ever seen before. Despite this, he was still able to see the sky above, still presenting that dark shade of blue. The man hadn’t packed a pocket watch, and was unsure as to what time it was. The time of day did not matter to the man enough to be of concern however. Not that day.
Before taking his seat at a nice clearing beside the trail, he noticed something. A trail, one adjacent to his own, darting off in a new direction. It was one that the man had never seen before, and was nearly impossible to even exist. The trail hugged the edge of the tiny mountain, yet this trail went off what would be that very edge, traveling on for an indescirnable length. The sight itself baffled the man, as it would anyone. The impossibility desperately tried to make itself possible within his mind yet couldn’t wrap around it. It was then, the man saw something he’d never forget.
Far into the path, through the white wall of fog, he saw a shadow. The darkened shadow of a woman, slowly stepping from one edge of the woods to another. She took her stride with cat-like grace and precision, taking her time with each step. Whether it was true recognition, or pure desperation, the man felt as though he knew that silhouette, It was one he hadn’t seen in quite some time, one that shook him to his core. He chose to ignore the subtle green glow emitting from her eyes.
He pushed himself off the ground, taking a moment to find his footing, before taking his first step torwards the path. He felt certain that once he took his first step down the trail, it may very well be his last. This didn’t shake the man however, as that was his plan all along.
He was a few steps into the trail before he turned around, now seeing an endless expanse of fog similar to the one before him. It was then the man noticed he had left the rope behind. He moved forward despite this.
---
The dampened soil slowly turned to stone below him, his heavy boots making a rhythmic clack against the ground with each step. The stone slowly shaped itself into an ornate pattern, stone bricks weaving in and out, a type of path the man hadn’t seen since his time in the city many years prior, now presesnting itself a mile up this mountain.
Like a blown out candle, the fog vanished. The man stopped dead. While there may have been possible explanations prior, there was nothing the man could do to understand what he was seeing.
He was no longer in the woods, rather, he was in a town center. Completely vacant of life, the new ground he stood upon spanning for miles in every direction, only interrupted by the occasionally placed buildings, all from a time long lost. Beautiful pillars sat upon the tops of every stone roof, each building perfectly, expertly crafted with an artist's touch. Every building towered above the man, awnings spread from nearly every window, crosses adorned the spiked pillars of every edge, gargoyles perched upon each extremity, all of which lined each side of the path, leading to the centerpiece of it all.
A castle, absolutely massive in size, inconceivably expansive, the man couldn’t even tell where its extensions ended. It was unlike anything the man had ever seen before, and if not for the horrifying reality he was grappling to accept, he’d be in tears at its pure beauty.
Ahead of him, stepping out from behind a tall stone pillar sitting beside one of the buildings, was the pup. Now far older, and far larger. Each strand of matted fur throughout its blackened hide stuck out like layers of pin pricks upon the dog's back, moving slowly down the unnatural length of the spine. Its pine green eyes punctured the fog, never dimming even for a moment, always locked upon the man's own. They shone like polished gems the man had only dreamed of seeing some day. The only sign of life emanating was the occasional gust of smoke pushing its way through its nostrils, still noticeably silent. Its mangy thin body carried the weight of its very presence with a heightened level of elegance. A king walking the streets of his fallen town.
The man stared back, first feeling immune to the intimidation, but slowly falling victim. The confidence was leaking out from him, leaving a thick pool of pessimism below him, one the dog was so desperate for.
A sharp exhale spit from the dog, shaking its head as if disgusted by the man, cleansing itself from his presence. It simply turned, and walked away, disappearing behind the wall, leaving the man once more.
When the man turned, he was back at his initial spot, as if he’d never walked that path at all. He spun around, baffled as to what he just experienced, yet he found no answers. Nothing to soothe his panicked mind, nothing to tell him what was real and what was not, nothing but a now bright sun shining down upon him, and an empty spot where his rope once sat.
---
In the town of Meridan, Connecticut, there sits a large range of trap rock hills overlooking the entirety of the small town. This land is called “Hanging Hills”. Today, it sits in the middle of the local Hubbard Park, where people visit year round. Those who wish, may hike a trail up the East Peak to an elevation of nearly one thousand feet, offering the best view one could ask for.
The legend lives on, some still reporting sitings of the elusive Black Dog. A lost spirit wandering the woods, following the trail, and leading those who wish to follow to an undetermined fate. Some claim good fortune, others claim the contrary, but all claim one thing. Follow the Black Dog long enough, and it will lead you to the top of the mountain. Sitting upon this peak, is a large stone pillar. A piece of history, from a time long lost, for a time yet spent.