Whiskey and the Ghostly Closet

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The nightly ritual had been repeating itself like clockwork. Every day at exactly 0203, Whiskey, a no-nonsense Belgian Malinois, would awaken from his slumber and break into a cacophony of growls and barks. Propelled by some unseen force, he would race up the stairs towards the closet, obsessed with the concealed door within. Each time, I would manage to calm him down, lulling him back to sleep with whispered promises of an investigation come daylight. However, every morning, when the sun dispelled the shadows of the night, a creeping fear would coil around my heart, leaving the puzzle of the hidden door unsolved.

The other two dogs, Piper and Tango, curiously stood back during Whiskey’s nighttime episodes, their eyes reflecting something akin to fear. Despite sharing the same space, they steered clear of the staircase and the closet as though they understood the presence of something taboo and unsettling beyond the unseen door.

One bright Sunday, bolstered by a newfound resolve, I decided to end the mystery. I made my way into the closet, the atmosphere unusually dense, tinged with a metallic aftertaste, vastly different from the rest of the house. The door, a relic from another time, was out of place, its battered frame and rusty knob speaking of a bygone era. It offered a slight resistance before the knob gave way, moaning as though breathing life into an age-old secret.

A blast of chilly wind rushed past me as the door creaked open. Beyond lay a room steeped in inky darkness, a darkness so absolute that it seemed to swallow the light that dared to enter from the closet. I stumbled around, feeling for my flashlight, and cautiously moved forward. The room smelt of dampness and decay, a place lost in time. Whiskey, who had been my constant shadow, stopped at the threshold, his hair standing on end, a low growl rumbling from his throat.

The flashlight’s dim glow revealed a dog bed in a corner; its material faded with age. A bowl sat beside it, with “Whiskey” scrawled across it in handwriting eerily familiar – my grandfather’s. The realization sent a shiver down my spine.

A photo frame was on a tiny wooden table, layered with dust. I carefully wiped it off and held my breath as I saw the picture. It was of my grandfather, youthful and full of life, standing next to a dog that could have been Whiskey’s twin. My pulse quickened. Whiskey had been named in honor of my grandfather’s favorite drink; little did I know, it was also his faithful friend’s name.

I quickly retreated from the room, locking the door behind me. I was left with a sense of disquiet that I couldn’t shake off. Looking at Whiskey, his intelligent eyes seemed to comprehend more than I expected. His frantic behavior ceased from that day, yet the memory of the room lingered.

Was it the presence of the original Whiskey he was reacting to, a message from beyond our world? Or was it just a dog’s instinct, tuning in to a past that we had inadvertently disturbed?

The digital display read 0203, but the house was hushed, the unearthed ghost of Whiskey bringing an uncanny calm. Yet, the experience left an unsettling resonance in our lives, a spine-chilling testament to the mysterious links between the past and the present.

About Post Author

Professor Mike

Professor Mike is a left-leaning, dog loving, political junkie. He has written dozens of articles for Substack, Medium, Simily, and Tribel. Professor Mike has been published at Smerconish.com, among others. He is a strong proponent of the environment, and a passionate protector of animals. In addition he is a fierce anti-Trumper. Take a moment and share his work.

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