A low, white river of fog slithered along the black streets as the clock turned to 1:00 a.m. I paced in front of the window, waiting for them. I looked out, turned and glanced back at my wife where she slept, and when my gaze returned to the window they were there.
When the doctor first told us that my wife had cancer I was strong, full of hope. I had to be for Rachel’s sake. But the day came, as it does for far too many, when the time for hope passed, and the time for preparations came. It was at that point I recalled the tale my Grandpa Ray used to tell me. My father assured me so many times that the story was fabricated; that my grandpa had just been toying with me, trying to scare me. But it hadn’t felt fictional and now I had proof. Well...proof to me anyway. I didn’t dare try to take a picture of them and share their truth with the world. They might never come back.
They stared up at me, black eyes glistening in the soft glow of the street lights, sitting obediently on the sidewalk. And the man, he just stood there. If he was looking at me, as they were, I couldn’t tell. According to the story you can never tell. In all honesty I do not believe he has a face, but if he does then no soul is allowed to see the physical attributes of the man many call the Reaper...more commonly know simply as Death.
I wondered how much time she had. The real countdown had begun, but there was no way to know the deadline. How long before the Hounds would show up without the man, and what would I do then? She was too young to be taken from me, but now it was inevitable. My disillusioned mind turned the idea of telling her what I knew, but there was no point to that. We both knew that her end was coming, her in ways I could never hope to understand. Through her own tormented process she had accepted her darkened fate. Who was I to darken it further with talk of the supernatural?
The next day was harder than the one before, as usual. I took care of her as I always did and said nothing of the man and his dogs. She’d heard the story, as I had, from my grandpa. In the end she had clapped and exclaimed her love of a good ghost story. She saw it as fiction, just as my father did. After she left the room I turned back to my grandpa and he just shook his head.
“Some people just can’t believe.” He said.
2.
That night they returned to watch over us a second time as we waited for the end. I was not afraid or angry as my grandpa had been when they came. When my grandmother passed he fought their coming with depressed rage, refusing to believe that her time had come. Eventually he went to them, but his pain could have been softened so much sooner and he always made sure to emphasize that point to me when he told the story. I was bitter, but not towards the man and his dogs, they were just acting their purpose as we all try to do in our short time on this earth.
The nights passed and my wife’s condition worsened. She became weak and unable to lift a glass to her mouth to drink. The Hounds returned, the man with them, silent and patient in the darkness. I wonder, now, if I would have been better off ignorant of her imminent departure from this world. If her death had come upon me suddenly, without warning, then I would have had no room for regrets. At least that’s what I told myself. But now, knowing that the end was near, I constantly wondered if I was doing enough. When she went, I feared that I would continue to believe I should have done more. After all, I am the only one that knows death is close, breathing its hot breath onto her neck and taking her strand by strand.
But there was nothing I could do besides make her comfortable, tell her how much I loved her, and wait. The man would disappear as my wife left this world, and then I would be left with the Hounds as they walked together into whatever life waited on the other side.
Another night came and as the clock changed to 1:00 a.m. I went to the window. There was no one there. My skin became cold and clammy, my breathing shallow. I grasped my hands together tightly, failing to calm the shaking. Only moments went by before I heard the soft jangle of the dogs’ black metal collars in the distance. The sounds were not accompanied by footsteps. I didn’t want to believe it, and so I waited to be sure.
When the Hounds emerged from the night’s mist, there was no cloaked figure with them as there had been previous nights. They padded along the concrete, massive and intimidating, and sat obediently on the sidewalk in front of my house to wait.
3.
Hot tears streamed down my face as I turned to my dear wife. Her body remained in the bed, but the rest of her had moved on. I knelt by her side and prayed, my tears falling onto the quilted comforter and darkening the fabric.
She had been everything to me, my entire world and more. She was only thirty-two years old. Under conditions such as these the grief could have driven me inward to hide away in my mind. Such sadness was beyond comprehension and impossible to accept. But before I could slip into silent madness, my mind went to the Hounds.
I kissed my late wife on the forehead and then the cheek, finally the lips. I told her how much I loved her and that I would see her again someday, then I left the room.
I went down the stairs and paused at the front door. I wanted to turn back, to run back to the bedroom and lay next to my wife. I wanted to cry a magic tear onto her skin and send life rushing back into her cold body. I wanted to watch her open her eyes, new and young and without sickness. I wanted to see her smile again. The idea that she would never smile again turned my insides in circles and brought a new wave of sobbing to the surface.
I turned the handle and the door swung open, flooding the foyer in cold blue moonlight and setting goose bumps onto my skin. The wind from the night brought reality back into view so I opened the screen door and stepped out into the fresh air. My wife would have loved it. This was her favorite time of year; winter having just let go, and spring still struggling slightly to take its place. As I left the patio I saw the Hounds, waiting patiently, panting puffs of white breath into the cold space in front of them, pink tongues lolling to the side. This was my first good look at them, and even through the blur of my tears I could not help but be impressed with the beasts. They had the shape of solid black German Shepherds and were twice the size of a Great Dane. Seated, they were as tall as I was...a grown man. Had they been evil, the Hounds could have done away with me before I could snap my fingers. The size of their jaws and teeth alone sent a chill through me, but I did not fear them. From their warm, black eyes to their motionless tails, the Hounds had not a hostile bone in them. As I looked at them, their pointed ears flicked in different directions, listening to the sounds of the night.
Instead of approaching them, I sat down in the thick grass of the front yard cross legged like a child settling in for story time. The green blades curled over my knees as I put my face into my hands and sobbed loudly beneath the stars.
The Hounds moved quietly through the grass and as they grew closer I immediately felt a blanket of calm fall over me. The warm animals surrounded me, lying in the grass on all sides. The biggest one laid its head in my lap and I began to softly stroke its fur. The other three comforted me with their deep, steady breathing and warm bodies. My tears dried and my heart filled with understanding.
4.
Death is not an evil being. He serves his purpose, and it is one that causes many people great suffering. This is why he brings the Hounds. A form of condolences from the world beyond. He comes early, to prepare, and when he is gone the Hounds stay behind to care for the grieving. Most don’t know they exist. Most are too caught up in the loss of a loved one to notice the four large black animals sitting obediently outside, but they are there.
The Hounds visited every night for three months, and every night I went to them, allowing their magic to enclose me and comfort me. They sat motionless at my side during the funeral, invisible to everyone else. I stroked their fur at the burial and they let my tears wet their coats. They stayed with me as I slept. If I woke, they woke with me. If my dreams turned to nightmares, they turned my thoughts elsewhere. At the end of those three months I was strong enough to cope with the loss on my own and the Hounds must have known that because they did not return.
Death must occur. We must lose the ones that we love. But Death will not allow us to morn in lonely silence. If you have lost a loved one, look for the Hounds, and do not be afraid. Their only purpose is to keep you warm during the coldest moments of your life.
