The Black Dog by Stephen Crane. There was a ceaseless rumble in the air
as the heavy rain drops battered upon the laurel thickets and the matted moss and
haggard rocks. Beneath four water soaked men made their difficult way through the drenched
forest. The little man stopped and shook an angry finger at where Night was
stealthily following them. Cursed be Fate and her children and her children's children.
We are ever lastingly lost, he cried. The panting procession halted under some
dripping, drooping hemlocks, and swore with wrathful astonishment. It will rain for
forty days and forty nights, said the pudgyman, moaningly. And I feel
like a wet loaf of bread. Now we shall never find our way out
of this wilderness until I am made into a porridge. In desperation, they
started again to drag their listless bodies through the watery bushes. After a time,
the clouds withdrew from above them, and great winds came from concealment and
went sweeping and swirling among the trees. Night also came very near and menaced
the wanderers with darkness, the little man had determination in his legs. He
scrambled among the thickets and made desperate attempts to find a path or road.
As he climbed a hillock, he espied a small clearing upon which sat desolation
and a venerable house, wept over by wind waved pines. Ho. He
cried, it's a house. His companions staggered painfully after him as he fought
the thickets between him and the cabin. At their approached, the wind frenzily
opposed them and scurled madly in the trees. The little man boldly confronted the
weird glances from the crannies of the cabin and rapped on the door. A
score of timbers answered with groans, and within something fell on the floor with
a clang. Ho, said the little man. He stepped back a few
paces. Somebody in a distant part started and walked across the floor towards the
door. With an ominous step, a slate colored man appeared. He was
dressed in a ragged shirt and trousers, the latter stuffed into his boots.
Large tears were falling from his eyes. How to do, my friends,
said the little man, affably. My old uncle Jim Crocker, he's sick
to death, replied the slate colored person. Ho, said the little man.
Is that so? The latter's clothing clung desperately to him, and water
sogged in his boots. He stood patiently on one foot for a time.
Can you put us up here till tomorrow? He asked. Finally, yes,
said the slate colored man. The party passed into the little, unwashed
room, inhabited by a stove, a stairway, a few precarious chairs,
and a misshapen table. I'll fry your up some pork and make you some
coffee, said the slate colored man to his guests. Go ahead, old
boy, cried the little man cheerfully, from where he sat on the table,
smoking his pipe and dangling his legs. My old uncle Jim Crocker,
he's sick to death, said the slate colored man. Think he'll die,
asked the pudgyman gently. No, he won't die. He's an old man,
but he won't die yet. The black dog hadn't been around yet.
The black dog, said the little man feebly. He struggled with himself for
a moment. What's the black dog? He asked at last, He's a
spirit, said the slate colored man, in a voice of somber hue.
Oh he is, well. He haunts these parts, he does, and
when people are going to die, he comes and sets and howls. Ho,
said the little man. He looked out of the window and saw a
knight making a million shadows. The little Man moved his legs nervously. I
don't believe in these things, he said, addressing the slate colored man,
who was scuffling with a sight of pork. What things came incoherently from the
combatant. Oh, these uh phantoms and ghosts and what not? All I
say, that's because you have merely a stomach and no soul, grunted the
pudgyman. Ho old Pudgkins, replied the little man. His back curved with
passion. A tempest of wrath was in the pudgy Man's eyes. The final
epithet used by the little Man was a carefully studied insult, always brought forth
at a crisis. They quarreled, All right, Pudgkins, bring on your
phantom, cried the little man. In conclusion. His stout companion's wrath was
too huge for words. The little man smiled triumphantly. He had staked his
opponent's reputation. The visitor sat silent. The slate colored man moved about in
a small personal atmosphere of gloom. Suddenly, a strange cry came to their
ears from somewhere. It was a low, trembling call, which made the
little man quake privately in his shoe o. The slate colored man bounded at
the stairway and disappeared with a flash of legs through a hole in the ceiling.
The party below heard two voices in conversation, one belonged to the slate
colored man and the other in quavering tones of age. Directly, the slate
colored man reappeared from above and said the old man as took bad for his
supper. He hurriedly prepared a mixture of hot water, salt and beef beef
tea, it might be called. He disappeared again once more. The party
below heard vaguely talking over their heads. The voice of age arose to a
shriek. Open the window, fool, Do you think I can live in
the smell of your soup? Mutterings by the slate colored man and the creaking
of the window were heard The slate colored man stumbled down the stairs and said,
with his intense gloom, the black darg will be along soon. The
little man started, and the pudgyman sneered at him. They ate a supper
and then sat waiting. The pudgyman listened so palpably that the little man wished
to kill him. The wood fire became excited and sputtered frantically without a thousand
spirits of the wind had become entangled in the pine branches and were lowly pleading
to be loosened. The slate colored man tiptoed across the room and lit a
timid candle. The men sat waiting. The phantom dog lay cuddled to a
round bundle, asleep down the roadway against the windward side of an old chanty.
The specter's master had moved to Pike County. But the dog lingered as
a friend might linger at the tomb of an old friend. His fur was
like a suit of old clothes. His jowls hung and flopped, exposing his
teeth. Yellow famine was in his eyes. The wind rock shanty groaned and
muttered, but the dog slept. Suddenly, However, he got up and
scrambled to the roadway. He cast a long glance from his hungry, despairing
eyes in the direction of the Venerable House. The breeze came full to his
nostrils. He threw back his head and gave a long, low howl,
and started intently up the road. Maybe he smelled a dead man. The
group around the fire in the Venerable House were listening and waiting. The atmosphere
of the room was tense, and the slate colored man's face was twitching,
and his drab hands were gripped together. The little man was continually looking behind
his chair upon the countenance of the pudgy man appeared conceit for an approaching triumph
over The little man mingled with apprehension for his own safety. Five pipes glowed
as rivals to the timid candle. Profound silence drooped heavily over them. Finally,
the slate colored man spoke, my old uncle Jim Crocker, He's sick
to death. The four men started and then shrank back in their chairs.
Damn it, replied the little man vaguely. Again, there was a long
silence. Suddenly it was broken by a wild cry from the room above.
It was a shriek that struck upon them with appalling swiftness, like a flash
of lightning. The walls whirled and the floor rumbled. It brought the men
together with a rush. They huddled in a heap and stared at the white
terror in each other's face. The slate colored man grasped the candle and flared
above his head the black dog. He howled and plunged at the stairway.
The madden four men followed frantically, for it was better to be in the
presence of the offal than only within. Hearing their ears still quivered with the
shriek. They bound through the hole in the ceiling and into the sick room,
with quilts drawn closely to his shrunken breast for a shield, his bony
hand gripping the cover. An old man lay with glazed eyes fixed on the
open window. His throat gurgled, and a froth appeared at his mouth.
From the outer darkness came a strange, unnatural wail, burdened with a weight
of death, and every note filled with foreboding. It was the song of
the spectral dog God, screamed the little man. He ran to the open
window. He could see nothing at first save the pine trees engaged in a
furious combat, tossing back and forth and struggling. The moon was peeping cautiously
over the rims of some black clouds. But the chant of the phantom guided
the little man's eyes, and he at length perceived its shadowy form on the
ground under the window. He fell away, gasping at the sight. The
pudgyman crouched in the corner, chattering insanely. The slate colored man, in
his fear, crooked his legs and looked like a hideous Chinese idol. The
man upon the bed was turned to stone, save the froth, which pulsated
in the final struggle. Terror will fight the inevitable. The little man roared
maniacal curses and rushed again to the window. Began to throw very articles at
the specter. A mug, a plate, a knife, a fork.
All crashed or clanged on the ground, but the song of the specter continued.
The bowl of beef tea followed. As it struck the ground, the
phantom seized its cry. The men in the chamber sank limply against the walls,
with the unearthly wail still ringing in their ears, and the fear unfaded
from their eyes. They waited again. The little man felt his nerves vibrate
destruction was better than another weight. He grasped the candle, and, going
to the window, held it over his head and looked out. Ho he
said. His companions crawled to the window and peered out with him. He's
eating the beef tea, said the slate colored man faintly. The damn dog
was hungry, said the pudgy man. There's your phantom, said the little
man to the pudgyman. On the bed the old man lay dead without the
specter was wagging its tail. The End of the Black Dog by Stephen Crane