Dogs howling at the moon

Every night I hear crying. Where the moans erupt from is a mystery, since I live alone with my father. He doesn’t cry. His stone body dried up ten years ago when my mother left. His love left with her, her high heel boots crushing against a rocky driveway, his tears stolen in the suitcase at her side. We haven’t heard from her since.
I tell myself the sounds are just stray dogs, but I never once have seen a stray dog in our little town. I used to think that maybe father liked to watch odd movies late at night, but the only TV in our house is in my room. He doesn’t believe in having a television in the living room. The cries have happened every night for as long as I can remember. I used to have nightmares, when I was young, that the people crying would scratch their way out of my walls and gobble me up. Now I’ve learned to blast my I-pod on nights its unbearable for me to hear. But on certain nights it will be so terrifying I’ll stay frozen in my bed, shivering.
I’ve never been brave enough to venture past my door, to see where the rope of sounds lead to. The cries sound like they’re just down in the basement, which scares me the most. Father never allowed me to go near that door, its mysterious aura just slithering in-between the splintered cracks of the metal lock. The thought of father’s cold eyes staring at me as I walked near the door would send shivers down my body.
The moans claw at my ears, the feathered pillow not thick enough to protect me from the sounds. I could feel my curiosity bubble. I choke my fear with white knuckles, trying to ignore it like I always have. But I started to slip my feet out of the covers and onto the cold wooden floor, goose bumps gliding up my body. The old wooden floorboards cease to creak, but maybe that’s because my blood is pumping so hard against my tight skin I can’t hear it.
I look into father’s bedroom, his messy sheets folded awkwardly around wrinkled pillows. He wasn’t in bed. I walk down the hallway, closer to the basement door. The cries are becoming quieter the closer I get, my heart barely able to stay put in my small chest. I stop, the force field of fear surrounding the door. The cries have stopped, leaving an eerie silence.
I look at it, my heart beating to the seconds it takes for my hand to land on the metal knob. The ‘click’ sound makes my skin crawl.

It was unlocked















I cover my ears with sticky hands, the syrup from the stolen Popsicle from the freezer still on my fingers. Mommy and Daddie’s yelling are shaking the house, every word vibrating through the structure. Yelling is a weak term. But I’m afraid of calling it screaming.
The screen door suddenly slams shut. I run to my window, looking down at the gravel driveway I had countlessly fallen down on by carelessly riding my bike. Mommy had a big suitcase at her side, her manicured hands dragging the bag to the car. I loved it when she got a new manicure, because she would always brush her fingers through my hair to get me to sleep at night. Her nails felt nice when they were fancier than normal.
I run downstairs, wanting to go with Mommy on her trip. But before I open the swinging screen door, dust is billowing from the turning tires, the car leaving a trail down the driveway. I run out, calling after Mommy. Maggie is barking, her whimpering mimicking the way I feel. I grab Maggie, stuffing her thick fur in my face. I start crying, unsure of why. I know Mommies coming back, but why do I feel so sad, like she won’t?
Maggie’s slimy tongue licks my face, wiping away my tears. I stand up, remembering how Mommy would always tell me to keep my chin up. I go back inside, dragging Maggie’s collar with me.
I call for Daddy, but he doesn’t respond. I reach up to the basement handle, trying to turn it, but it’s locked. Why did Daddy lock the basement? “Daddy? Are you in the basement Daddy?” I cry, wanting someone to console me. I keep calling his name until I hear a curdling yell, my feet falling from underneath me. I stare at the door, the sound coming from downstairs. Maggie’s now growling at the door, her white fur standing up on her back.
I try to call for Daddy once more, but it’s interrupted by the basement door slamming open. Daddy starts walking out, his eyes never meeting my snotty face. I stumble to follow him, but he gets in the truck and follows Mommy’s car tracks. I start bawling, my shivering body holding onto Maggie, afraid she would leave me too. Was it because I stole the Popsicle? “I won’t ever steal a Popsicle again….I’m sorry Mommy, Daddy. Please come back!” I cry, unable to get up.