Silas: A Supernatural Thriller (3 page)

The bedroom door –
our
bedroom door – slammed a moment later.

Finally alone, I walked into the living room and lounged on the couch, resting my beer on my stomach. I was a little worried Wendy would be pissed at me come morning, but I shrugged it off. She’d get over it. She always did. But for the moment I got what I wanted.

Peace. Quiet. The television to myself.

Suddenly I heard Wendy break out crying above me. The annoying puppy began barking and didn’t stop for hours.

So much for getting my own way.

3

For the record, Wendy and I weren’t always this miserable
.
In fact, in the beginning we thought we had a relationship everyone else should envy.

We met in the one place you’re not supposed to meet the love of your life – a small dive bar in
Southington
,
Connecticut
. We were heading in opposite directions at that point as far as education goes. I’d just dropped out of film school, having decided to go it on my own, while she was entering her second year at the Rhode Island School of Art and Design. Yet we were journeying toward the same goal intellectually: the quest for moral righteousness. She believed in free health care for the masses. I wanted to filter the fight for social equality into my screenplays. That first night our conversation seemed to go on forever. I guess the fact I’d come onto her using my brain instead of trying to prove how masculine I was helped me gain her attention while so many others failed, though truth be told a part of me was just as primal as any other guy in the place. The talking was a means to an end – the end being to get into her pants.

I digress.

We dated for five years after that first meeting. She finished school and started making freelance pottery while I tended the counter at the local Cumberland Farms and wrote in my spare time. We didn’t have much money but we were happy. It didn’t matter that we lived paycheck to paycheck or that the furniture in our apartment consisted of discarded odds and ends picked up roadside. We had our conversations, we had our sex life, and we had our passions. We thought that would be enough to carry us through to the end.

Then came marriage, and those good tidings slowly faded away.

First was the constant stress over money. We purchased a house a month after our wedding and found it difficult to pay the bills on time. Next were the night courses I took – my own decision, not hers – as I put aside dreams of succeeding in the movie industry and moved in the direction of a more “realistic” career. I graduated and took a job as a buyer for a national supermarket chain. After that came depression, making our sex life grow stagnant. Then, just when I thought things couldn’t get worse, Wendy drove the final nail into our coffin of bliss.

She was getting older. She wanted children.

Besides pets, the other thing I never desired was a family. Sure, I’d given lip service to the idea during much of our time together, but I’d always thought I could stave off her maternal cravings by ultimately highlighting how enjoyable life could be if we lived fast and free with no one to care for but ourselves. Wendy wasn’t listening. She longed for pregnancy, to hold a child of her own. In hindsight, it was something I probably should’ve paid attention to.

With me being unreceptive to the idea, our home life festered. I began spending a lot of time away. Simply pulling into the driveway became a dreaded act. Wendy grew distant, her disappointed glances now a common addition to our daily routine. I started looking at other women as a possible retreat, but the thought of cheating on Wendy only added to my stress and guilt. It was as if I’d trapped myself in a prison of high ideals I couldn’t break free of. As I look back on it now I realize that even though I loved Wendy, I loved myself more, which is a damn shame.

All of this led to the arrival of Silas. We’d been married for five years and were both in our early thirties. I guess she assumed having that dog around would change our dynamic, that it would add new meaning to our relationship.

I wasn’t so optimistic.

4

Come to find out, originally Wendy had wanted to name the dog
Mercatroy
. She said that way it would be unlikely to find another with the same name and it would be intrinsically ours. I made sure to remind her that this was
her
dog, not mine. She didn’t like that very much.

She decided to change his name while driving home from the breeder. It seemed the dog didn’t respond well to
Mercatroy
, so she just started calling out names, waiting for him to show an interest. When she said
Silas
, which had been her great-great grandfather, his ears perked up and he licked her face. That clinched it.

In Latin,
Silas
means
of the woods
. During the first Saturday after the mutt invaded my privacy, I found out how much that definition suited him.

I reclined on the front deck, a beer nestled between my legs. The sun beat down on me, making it feel like spring even though there was still a chill in the air. Wendy spent the afternoon tossing stick in the backyard. Silas bounced around her, sometimes retrieving the stick, sometimes simply standing over it, yelping in that annoying, high-pitched bark of his, waiting for Wendy to laugh, stroll across the yard, and pick it up again…which she inevitably did.

When the puppy
did
give chase, his body would slip sideways as if his hind legs moved too fast for his front to keep up. He’d end up shooting past the stick when it bounced on the grass, making a beeline for the surrounding forest. When he disappeared behind the trees Wendy would call his name for a few moments until he reappeared. Each time he did he brought with him a different lost item. First it was a tennis ball, then a decapitated G.I. Joe action figure, after that a Frisbee, and so on and so forth. By the time the sun dipped beyond the horizon the little bugger had gathered a substantial pile of discarded knickknacks. Wendy collected them all by the side of the porch with pride.

“What’re we gonna do with all this stuff?” I asked as she placed the last item of the day, a doll’s arm, on top of the heap. She looked up at me with tired eyes. Sweat poured down her face and she squinted. There was something about the curvature of her mouth that I hadn’t seen in quite some time – at least while she was looking in my direction. It was a concealed, yet noticeable, smile.

Then she glared at me and went back about her business. She ushered little Silas into the house without another glance in my direction.

I guess I deserved that.

5

Wendy and I made up that evening. The dog, exhausted from a long day of playing fetch-whatever-you-can-get-your-teeth-on, slept in his crate in the kitchen. I ventured upstairs to find Wendy curled up in bed, sheets pulled to her chin, her back to the door. Finally I had the chance – and desire – to play the role of remorseful husband without any outside distractions. I didn’t want to spend another night on the couch. My neck had already paid the price for that.

“Hey cutie,” I said.

She didn’t answer.

“I’m sorry,” I continued, doing my best to stick to the script. “I didn’t want to hurt you. I guess I just let my emotions get the best of me.”

She rolled over. She was smiling, but something about that expression seemed different than usual. I saw no hesitation, no anger. It almost seemed as if the words that came out of my mouth didn’t matter.

“It’s okay,” she said, her voice chirping. She pulled back the covers. “Now get in here. I’m tired.”

I stripped to my underwear and crawled into bed. She sighed, pressed her butt cheeks against my groin, and wiggled.

“I love you, Wendy,” I whispered.

She moaned in response. With my gander standing at attention, no sound had ever been more arousing. I relished the silence, the closeness, the total lack of judgment between us.
This
was what marriage was supposed to be. I forgot about our troubles, my job, and the unwanted canine sleeping in the kitchen. For the first time in months I fell asleep happy. Maybe having that stupid dog around would be a good thing, after all.

Three hours later, at two-thirty in the morning, Silas started whining, and those good feelings evaporated. It started as a soft hum, much like what you’d hear when the local broadcasts ended in the days before the advent of cable television, and then grew into a series of elongated moans that increased in volume with each passing second until finally turning into full-on barking. I stuffed my head beneath my pillow and groaned. That action succeeded in muffling the sound, but it still grated on my nerves. Anger caused my heart to pick up its pace as energy pulsed through my legs. I flopped onto my back and slapped the sheets.

“Wendy,” I said, “the goddamn dog’s awake.”

She didn’t answer.

“Wendy,” I repeated, “you gotta get down there and shut the little bastard up.”

Still nothing.

“WENDY!”

“Huh?” she replied, sounding dazed.

“Get the dog. He won’t shut up.”

She grunted and rolled over. “Can you do it?”

“Me? I told you, this is
your
dog. You take the responsibility.”

A second later she was snoring.

“Wendy?”

Nothing.

“Fine. You asked for it.”

I got out of bed, snatched my tee shirt off the floor, threw it on, and stomped out of the room. I whacked the light switch in the hall so hard that splinters of pain shot from my knuckles to my forearm and finally found residence in my elbow. “Bitch!” I screamed, rubbing my sore hand while I walked down the stairs.

Into the kitchen I went, striding with anger in beat with the ever-loudening chorus of yelps. I was convinced I’d throw open the cage and hurl the annoying pain in the ass across the room, but something strange happened when I turned on the light. The dog stopped barking. I stood in the doorway and stared at the cage. Silas sat motionless behind the thin bars, gazing at me, his eyes twinkling. My anger waned ever so slightly.

“You,” I muttered, “are one annoying little dude.”

Silas replied with a cock of his head. He whimpered, leaned forward, and started nibbling on the cage door. His paws scratched at the metal as if he could claw his way out. I sighed and approached him, yelping a bit myself when my bare feet touched the cold tile floor. Silas stopped his pawing and made a guttural noise that sounded like a slide whistle. I chortled, bent over the cage, and released the latch.

“We’re not gonna make a habit of this, you know,” I said.

The black
Labrador
puppy stepped out tentatively, testing the floor’s temperature as if he’d learned from my mistake. When he fully emerged from the cage he sat down and gazed at me, his tail whipping about behind him.

I turned around and headed for the living room. “Come on,” I said, but the dog didn’t follow. I faced him again and frowned.

“What’s the matter with you?”

He barked.

“Come on. Let’s go.”

Another bark from the stubborn canine.

“Now, Silas. Move those feet. Post haste.”

Still another bark.

I rolled my eyes. “Fine. Whatever.” I walked over to him. His mouth opened as I did so and his long, red tongue bobbed like a yo-yo. The way the corners of his jaw creased made it look like he was smiling. I smiled back and lifted him up.