Sunday, November 27, 2005

Ghost Story: Written by Craig Dominey
To some folks, Christmas might not seem like the right time of year to tell ghost stories. But I've got a spooky tale to share with you. And to understand my story, you first have to understand the relationship between my father and his dog.

You see, my father loved his dog more than anything else in the world, including his own family. Or at least that's the way it appeared to me. There were no pictures of my mother and I in his wallet, only that big, sloppy, clumsy dog. He took his dog everywhere he went - on family vacations, out in the fields, even to bed at night! He showered every ounce of love he had on that dog, and it made my blood boil.

Back then, I was an only child growing up in a farmhouse deep in the South Georgia countryside. The wooden house sat at the edge of a thick forest that stretched on for miles. It was a drafty old place with high ceilings, cavernous hallways and dark hardwood floors that creaked loudly with each footstep. My father was an ex-army colonel, and a strict disciplinarian. He had a cold and stiff demeanor, as if some army trainer along the line had squeezed every ounce of emotion out of him. As the years passed, I grew more and more distant from my father. In fact, sometimes I was downright scared of him. And I paid little attention to any awkward attempts he made to show his affections.

But every human being needs an outlet for their emotions, so my father got something that wouldn't talk back or challenge him - a dog. As if by divine intervention, a stray black lab came bounding onto our property one day, wet and starving. After some half-hearted attempts to locate the original owners, my father named him "Mac" and welcomed him with open arms into our home.

Mac constantly tried to play with me - jumping up on my lap, nudging me with a dirty tennis ball in its mouth, licking my face. But I shoved him away each time, sending him running back to my father. Over the years, Mac never seemed to get the message that I wanted no part of his affection. I even shut the door to my room to keep him out. When I was about 13 years old, Mac grew sick with cancer. My father watched in horror as his dog deteriorated before his eyes. Mac spent his days lying in the middle of the family room, panting and unable to eat, his sharply defined ribs heaving with each pained breath. When my father would reach down to pet him, a joyous recognition would flash in his eye, only to be extinguished by his agony.

We had no choice - my father made the hardest decision of his life and had Mac put to sleep. After it was done, he wept and spent many hours alone. Each part of his daily routine - driving to the store, walking around the property, reading the paper in the morning - seemed empty without Mac around. But to be honest, I felt no sadness. Deep inside, I felt like we could now be a normal family with Mac out of the picture.
One day, I walked into my parents' bedroom and noticed a strange wooden box sitting on my father's nightstand. It was nailed shut, and had the name "Mac" engraved on a brass plate. When I confronted my mother about it, she rolled her eyes and told me the ghastly story. Shortly after Mac's death, my father had had him cremated, and now kept his ashes beside the bed.

Well, that was the last straw. My father couldn't stay away from that dog when he was alive, and now he was clinging to him in death. I simply could not live another moment with that dog in the house. So one night when my parents were away, I grabbed a shovel, stole the box from their bedroom and ran through the dark into the forest. I buried that box under a tree and covered it with pine straw. It was so far out in the woods that there was no way my father would ever find it. I knew I'd get the beating of my life when my father came home, and I didn't care. The look of agony on his face made it worth it to me. Now he would pay for not being the father I wanted. Hysterical with rage, he dragged me out into the forest the next morning and made me dig under every tree for that box. But I honestly couldn't remember where I had buried it. After days of trying, we finally gave up.

Needless to say, our relationship soured even more after that. We rarely spoke to one another, and when I grew older and left for college, I rarely returned home. Christmas seemed like a painful obligation, with a cold chill hanging over us as we sat silently around the festive table. My poor mother tried everything she could to bring us together as a family, but the damage had been done.

I eventually married and moved far away from my parents. They barely knew my wife, and we spent most holidays with her parents up north. But the bitterness of my childhood wormed its way into my marriage, and before I knew it, we were divorced. In the following years, my parents passed on, leaving the old family house cold and empty. I dreaded the Christmas season of 1985, for I knew that for the first time, I would truly be alone. The sounds of Christmas cheer were like nails under my skin, and I drank heavily to block them out. So when I was asked one day to look after the old family house while it was being put on the real estate market, I quickly agreed. Perhaps deep in the country I could get away from all the bright lights and wretched merriment.





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