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The Black Dog by Stephen Crane.
There was a ceaseless rumble in the air

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as the heavy rain drops battered upon
the laurel thickets and the matted moss and

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haggard rocks. Beneath four water soaked
men made their difficult way through the drenched

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forest. The little man stopped and
shook an angry finger at where Night was

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stealthily following them. Cursed be Fate
and her children and her children's children.

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We are ever lastingly lost, he
cried. The panting procession halted under some

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dripping, drooping hemlocks, and swore
with wrathful astonishment. It will rain for

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forty days and forty nights, said
the pudgyman, moaningly. And I feel

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like a wet loaf of bread.
Now we shall never find our way out

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of this wilderness until I am made
into a porridge. In desperation, they

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started again to drag their listless bodies
through the watery bushes. After a time,

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the clouds withdrew from above them,
and great winds came from concealment and

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went sweeping and swirling among the trees. Night also came very near and menaced

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the wanderers with darkness, the little
man had determination in his legs. He

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scrambled among the thickets and made desperate
attempts to find a path or road.

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As he climbed a hillock, he
espied a small clearing upon which sat desolation

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and a venerable house, wept over
by wind waved pines. Ho. He

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cried, it's a house. His
companions staggered painfully after him as he fought

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the thickets between him and the cabin. At their approached, the wind frenzily

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opposed them and scurled madly in the
trees. The little man boldly confronted the

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weird glances from the crannies of the
cabin and rapped on the door. A

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score of timbers answered with groans,
and within something fell on the floor with

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a clang. Ho, said the
little man. He stepped back a few

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paces. Somebody in a distant part
started and walked across the floor towards the

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door. With an ominous step,
a slate colored man appeared. He was

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dressed in a ragged shirt and trousers, the latter stuffed into his boots.

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Large tears were falling from his eyes. How to do, my friends,

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said the little man, affably.
My old uncle Jim Crocker, he's sick

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to death, replied the slate colored
person. Ho, said the little man.

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Is that so? The latter's clothing
clung desperately to him, and water

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sogged in his boots. He stood
patiently on one foot for a time.

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Can you put us up here till
tomorrow? He asked. Finally, yes,

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said the slate colored man. The
party passed into the little, unwashed

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room, inhabited by a stove,
a stairway, a few precarious chairs,

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and a misshapen table. I'll fry
your up some pork and make you some

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coffee, said the slate colored man
to his guests. Go ahead, old

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boy, cried the little man cheerfully, from where he sat on the table,

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smoking his pipe and dangling his legs. My old uncle Jim Crocker,

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he's sick to death, said the
slate colored man. Think he'll die,

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asked the pudgyman gently. No,
he won't die. He's an old man,

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but he won't die yet. The
black dog hadn't been around yet.

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The black dog, said the little
man feebly. He struggled with himself for

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a moment. What's the black dog? He asked at last, He's a

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spirit, said the slate colored man, in a voice of somber hue.

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Oh he is, well. He
haunts these parts, he does, and

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when people are going to die,
he comes and sets and howls. Ho,

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said the little man. He looked
out of the window and saw a

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knight making a million shadows. The
little Man moved his legs nervously. I

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don't believe in these things, he
said, addressing the slate colored man,

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who was scuffling with a sight of
pork. What things came incoherently from the

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combatant. Oh, these uh phantoms
and ghosts and what not? All I

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say, that's because you have merely
a stomach and no soul, grunted the

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pudgyman. Ho old Pudgkins, replied
the little man. His back curved with

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passion. A tempest of wrath was
in the pudgy Man's eyes. The final

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epithet used by the little Man was
a carefully studied insult, always brought forth

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at a crisis. They quarreled,
All right, Pudgkins, bring on your

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phantom, cried the little man.
In conclusion. His stout companion's wrath was

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too huge for words. The little
man smiled triumphantly. He had staked his

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opponent's reputation. The visitor sat silent. The slate colored man moved about in

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a small personal atmosphere of gloom.
Suddenly, a strange cry came to their

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ears from somewhere. It was a
low, trembling call, which made the

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little man quake privately in his shoe
o. The slate colored man bounded at

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the stairway and disappeared with a flash
of legs through a hole in the ceiling.

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The party below heard two voices in
conversation, one belonged to the slate

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colored man and the other in quavering
tones of age. Directly, the slate

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colored man reappeared from above and said
the old man as took bad for his

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supper. He hurriedly prepared a mixture
of hot water, salt and beef beef

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tea, it might be called.
He disappeared again once more. The party

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below heard vaguely talking over their heads. The voice of age arose to a

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shriek. Open the window, fool, Do you think I can live in

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the smell of your soup? Mutterings
by the slate colored man and the creaking

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of the window were heard The slate
colored man stumbled down the stairs and said,

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with his intense gloom, the black
darg will be along soon. The

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little man started, and the pudgyman
sneered at him. They ate a supper

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and then sat waiting. The pudgyman
listened so palpably that the little man wished

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to kill him. The wood fire
became excited and sputtered frantically without a thousand

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spirits of the wind had become entangled
in the pine branches and were lowly pleading

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to be loosened. The slate colored
man tiptoed across the room and lit a

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timid candle. The men sat waiting. The phantom dog lay cuddled to a

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round bundle, asleep down the roadway
against the windward side of an old chanty.

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The specter's master had moved to Pike
County. But the dog lingered as

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a friend might linger at the tomb
of an old friend. His fur was

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like a suit of old clothes.
His jowls hung and flopped, exposing his

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teeth. Yellow famine was in his
eyes. The wind rock shanty groaned and

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muttered, but the dog slept.
Suddenly, However, he got up and

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scrambled to the roadway. He cast
a long glance from his hungry, despairing

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eyes in the direction of the Venerable
House. The breeze came full to his

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nostrils. He threw back his head
and gave a long, low howl,

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and started intently up the road.
Maybe he smelled a dead man. The

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group around the fire in the Venerable
House were listening and waiting. The atmosphere

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of the room was tense, and
the slate colored man's face was twitching,

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and his drab hands were gripped together. The little man was continually looking behind

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his chair upon the countenance of the
pudgy man appeared conceit for an approaching triumph

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over The little man mingled with apprehension
for his own safety. Five pipes glowed

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as rivals to the timid candle.
Profound silence drooped heavily over them. Finally,

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the slate colored man spoke, my
old uncle Jim Crocker, He's sick

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to death. The four men started
and then shrank back in their chairs.

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Damn it, replied the little man
vaguely. Again, there was a long

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silence. Suddenly it was broken by
a wild cry from the room above.

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It was a shriek that struck upon
them with appalling swiftness, like a flash

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of lightning. The walls whirled and
the floor rumbled. It brought the men

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together with a rush. They huddled
in a heap and stared at the white

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terror in each other's face. The
slate colored man grasped the candle and flared

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above his head the black dog.
He howled and plunged at the stairway.

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The madden four men followed frantically,
for it was better to be in the

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presence of the offal than only within. Hearing their ears still quivered with the

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shriek. They bound through the hole
in the ceiling and into the sick room,

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with quilts drawn closely to his shrunken
breast for a shield, his bony

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hand gripping the cover. An old
man lay with glazed eyes fixed on the

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open window. His throat gurgled,
and a froth appeared at his mouth.

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From the outer darkness came a strange, unnatural wail, burdened with a weight

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of death, and every note filled
with foreboding. It was the song of

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the spectral dog God, screamed the
little man. He ran to the open

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window. He could see nothing at
first save the pine trees engaged in a

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furious combat, tossing back and forth
and struggling. The moon was peeping cautiously

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over the rims of some black clouds. But the chant of the phantom guided

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the little man's eyes, and he
at length perceived its shadowy form on the

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ground under the window. He fell
away, gasping at the sight. The

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pudgyman crouched in the corner, chattering
insanely. The slate colored man, in

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his fear, crooked his legs and
looked like a hideous Chinese idol. The

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man upon the bed was turned to
stone, save the froth, which pulsated

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in the final struggle. Terror will
fight the inevitable. The little man roared

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maniacal curses and rushed again to the
window. Began to throw very articles at

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the specter. A mug, a
plate, a knife, a fork.

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All crashed or clanged on the ground, but the song of the specter continued.

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The bowl of beef tea followed.
As it struck the ground, the

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phantom seized its cry. The men
in the chamber sank limply against the walls,

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with the unearthly wail still ringing in
their ears, and the fear unfaded

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from their eyes. They waited again. The little man felt his nerves vibrate

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destruction was better than another weight.
He grasped the candle, and, going

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to the window, held it over
his head and looked out. Ho he

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said. His companions crawled to the
window and peered out with him. He's

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eating the beef tea, said the
slate colored man faintly. The damn dog

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was hungry, said the pudgy man. There's your phantom, said the little

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man to the pudgyman. On the
bed the old man lay dead without the

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specter was wagging its tail. The
End of the Black Dog by Stephen Crane