A local pet rehoming organization is where I discovered the listing. “Boxer pup needs a quiet home—no charge, just love him like I can’t anymore,” the statement read. I wasn’t prepared for how hard that affected me. The house felt empty in a manner that I couldn’t describe because I had just finalized my divorce the week before.
I sent her a message.
Darla was her name. She asked me a lot of intelligent questions, responded quickly, and expressed her concern that he would end up “with the wrong kind of people.” It felt more like she genuinely cared than an interview.
It was late afternoon when I arrived at her cabin in the woods. There are leaves everywhere. chilly wind. And she already had the puppy in her arms on the porch.
His boxer face, soft fur, and silly tiny paws made him even more adorable than the photos. Her eyes didn’t quite meet her smile, though. Without hesitation, as if she had already said farewell in her mind, she gave him to me.
I thanked her and promised to send her pictures to stay in touch. She nodded before saying, “If he ever tries to dig under the bed—don’t let him,” as I turned to go. Simply shut the door. Please.
I paused and chuckled, thinking perhaps she was kidding.
However, her smile had vanished.
“It’s not him doing it,” she said, ignoring me. All I can say is that.
I didn’t inquire about her meaning.
I assumed that she might be sad, perplexed, or simply emotional.
I heard the sound—scratching beneath my bed—two nights later. Additionally, he wasn’t there when I reached down to remove him.
Slowly and deliberately, as if something were trying to crawl through the floorboards, the scratching persisted. My heart pounded. Except for the dim gleam of moonlight coming in through the window, the room was dark. The noise continued even after I turned on the lamp next to my bed.
“Hey, friend!” I patted the mattress and called softly. “Come on over here!”
No answer. More scratching, please.
I knelt down and looked under the bedframe into the darkness. It appeared vacant at first. A faint shimmering outline, resembling heat waves rising off concrete, caught my attention. As it approached the center of the room, it pulsed softly.
I recalled Darla’s caution at that point: “It’s not him doing it.”
My stomach grew constricted. A part of me wanted to laugh it off, thinking that perhaps my imagination was a result of the stress of the relocation, but I also understood that this wasn’t typical. I took the flashlight off my bedside table and shined it beneath the bed. Whatever was there, the light went straight through it, highlighting dust particles rather than solid objects.
But the scratching continued to get louder.
I felt panic rising inside of me. I took a step back and closed the bedroom door securely. I leaned against the wall in the hallway to collect my breath. What on earth was happening? Was I going crazy? Or did I bring something… strange into my house?
I made the decision to call Darla the following morning. I had her number stored on my phone from when we first spoke. Her voice sounded worn out but not startled when she responded.
“Didn’t you hear it already?” She enquired.
“How did you find out?”
A long pause ensued. “Because it never fails. In two days, each and every time.
“At every moment?” My voice broke. “What do you mean?”
She let out a deep sigh. “I’ve already made three attempts to give him away. Despite their promises to care for him, none of the families were able to keep him for more than a week. They all returned with the same statement: they were unable to cope.
“What should I handle?” I pushed.
Darla paused. It’s difficult to describe. He seems to be followed by something. Something ancient. Something connected to his previous owner.
“His previous owner?” Echoing, I felt lightheaded. “You have never before mentioned anyone else.”
“No,” she said softly. “If I did, I didn’t think you’d believe me.”
With a hint of impatience, I yelled, “Try me.” “Aren’t I living with it now?”
She clarified that the dog, named Tiller, had belonged to her brother, Caleb, who had very suddenly the previous year. Darla claims that Caleb had been actively engaged in a spiritual activity of some kind, experimenting with energies and rituals that he didn’t fully comprehend. Tiller began acting strangely after his death, such as growling at nothing or spending hours looking at corners. The scratching—and worse—came next.
Darla admitted, “I believed that getting rid of him would fix the issue.” However, the scratching follows him everywhere. And occasionally… other stuff as well.
“Anything else?” Numbly, I repeated.
She firmly stated, “Things I don’t want to talk about over the phone.” “Look, tomorrow I’ll be over. Together, we will solve this. Just make me a promise: tonight, keep Tiller away from your bed.
Tiller cuddled up next to me as I closed myself in the living room that night. He didn’t appear to notice the strain flowing from me at all. He seemed blissfully unaware of the mayhem around us as he chewed on a squeaky toy and waggled his tail.
But I couldn’t sleep. Every rustle of leaves outside and every creak of the house made me uneasy. I heard heavy, sluggish footsteps upstairs at midnight, and they were clearly not mine. My heartbeat accelerated. With my heart racing, I snatched a baseball bat from the closet and slipped toward the stairs.
A shadowy figure, stooped and unnaturally tall, stood at the top of the stairs. Its shape faltered, like if it weren’t totally real. We just stared at each other for a while. Then it lifted an arm, pointing down toward the bedroom where Tiller had been sleeping earlier, but not in attack.
“No,” I said in a whisper while shaking my head. “Never again.”
After tilting its head, the figure vanished into the smoke.
Darla delivered supplies the following day, including salt, bundles of sage, and a little leather-bound journal with entries scrawled in unsteady handwriting. She explained what needed to be done and quickly put up protective measures around the house.
She stated, “This isn’t just about Tiller.” “It’s about finding closure—for you, Caleb, and everyone else impacted by this.”
We carried out a purification ceremony that she had put together using the information her brother had gathered. It included burning herbs, saying certain words aloud, and scattering positive-energy-infused items around the house. The air was lighter and somehow clearer at the end.
After then, everything was quiet for weeks. No scuffs, no shadows hiding around corners. Tiller was a devoted friend who filled the emptiness left by my lost marriage. He adjusted to his new life rather well. Life started to feel complete once more.
I was reading on the couch one rainy afternoon when Tiller abruptly sprung up, his ears perked up. After giving one quick, anxious bark, he dashed to the front entrance. I followed him out, confused.
A man in a hooded jacket stood in the driveway, shadows hiding his face. He extended his hand palm up, displaying a tiny dog-shaped wooden carving.
“Caleb sent me,” was all he said. “To put things right.”
It turns out that Caleb had just moved his practices to a different level of existence rather than giving them up after death. We concluded Caleb’s incomplete task with the assistance of the enigmatic messenger, cutting Tiller’s connection to the restless energy that had been bothering him.
Ultimately, Tiller continued to be my devoted friend, unburdened by his troubled history. And I discovered a priceless lesson: sometimes confronting fears you were unaware of is necessary for healing.
There are many secrets, difficulties, and unexpected turns in life. However, the most rewarding trips are frequently the most difficult. Tell this story to someone who might need a reminder that strength and hope can triumph over even the most difficult circumstances if you found it enjoyable. Remember to leave a comment and a like below!