Scrappy thing that always curled up

When I was a kid, we lived in an old wooden house in a small town. It wasn’t fancy, just a simple place with creaky floors and long, dark hallways. My dad worked late nights, and one evening, I was home sick with a bad fever.

My mom let me stay up on the couch watching TV with her since I couldn’t sleep. We had a little dog named Rusty, a small, scrappy thing that always curled up at my mom’s feet when she sat down.

That night, my parents’ friends from down the street were supposed to come over for a game of cards, but they never showed. We didn’t think much of it at first.

We were watching an old black-and-white movie when, out of nowhere, Rusty sat up, stiff as a board. His fur stood on end, and he started growling low, his eyes locked on something down the hallway. I followed his gaze, but all I saw was darkness.

Then he started backing up toward my mom, still growling like he was ready to fight. My mom jumped up and flipped on the hallway light, but there was nothing there. Just empty space.

Even though we couldn’t see anything, Rusty was still spooked. My mom got nervous and called my dad at work, telling him she thought someone might be outside. He told her to call the police while he rushed home.

Just as she hung up, the phone rang again. It was my mom’s friend from down the street, crying so hard she could barely talk. She told my mom that her husband had just taken his own life.

Everything went quiet. My mom sat there holding the phone, and I just stared down the hallway. I knew, even at that young age, that Rusty hadn’t been barking at nothing. He saw something—something we couldn’t.

I still think about that night. I believe, deep down, that what Rusty saw was the spirit of our neighbor, lingering just before moving on.