The Ghost of Lazarus Lane

March 16, 2011

by Aliya

3 min read

Story Premise 3 min read (586 words)

"On the first Tuesday after the harvest moon, I lost my dog, Buster, a golden retriever who had been my shadow for nine years. My partner, Lena, found him stiff beneath the porch swing, his tail still curled as if he’d been dreaming of chasing rabbits. It was a gut-punch; he’d slept at the foot […]"

On the first Tuesday after the harvest moon, I lost my dog, Buster, a golden retriever who had been my shadow for nine years. My partner, Lena, found him stiff beneath the porch swing, his tail still curled as if he’d been dreaming of chasing rabbits. It was a gut-punch; he’d slept at the foot of our bed every night since we moved into this old farmhouse, his warm weight a comfort against the creaks and groans of the century-old walls.

I buried him under the gnarled apple tree at the edge of the property, the one that bore fruit so sour even the deer avoided it. I placed a flat river stone over the grave, etched with his name and the dates, and I left a single chewed-up tennis ball on top. I didn’t want a necropsy; I couldn’t bear the thought of anyone cutting into him, of disturbing whatever final peace he’d found.

Last Saturday, I was lying awake in bed, the digital clock blinking 3:33 AM, when I felt a familiar weight depress the mattress near my feet. The precise, deliberate steps of a large dog padding up the bed. I held my breath, and the presence walked the length of my body, stopping to circle once before settling against my left side, exactly where Buster used to sleep. I reached out, my hand hovering over the spot, and I felt the coarse fur of his shoulder, the faint warmth of his body. But when I moved to pet him, my hand passed through nothing. The weight vanished, and I was left staring at the empty sheet, tears blurring the moonlight.

The next night, I heard him whining from the spare room at the end of the hall, the door slightly ajar. A sound so plaintive, so familiar, that I got up and opened it fully, expecting to see him there, but the room was empty, dust motes dancing in the sliver of light from the hallway. I stood there, listening, until the sound faded into the hum of the house.

Tonight, I was in the basement, tinkering with my motorcycle, a hobby I’d taken up after Buster died to fill the silence. My back was to the staircase, and I was fiddling with the carburetor when I caught a flicker of movement in the periphery of my vision. I turned, heart hammering, and there, at the bottom of the stairs, was a shape, indistinct but unmistakably canine, sitting patiently, tail wagging slowly. I blinked, and it was gone. But in its place, on the dusty concrete floor, was a single, fresh paw print, as if pressed into wet clay. I knelt, my fingers tracing the print, and it was cold, colder than the floor around it. I looked up, and for a moment, I could swear I saw a ghostly outline of Buster’s head, his ears perked, before it dissolved into the shadows.

I haven’t told Lena; she’s already grieving in her own way, and I don’t want to frighten her. But I’ve started sleeping with a flashlight under my pillow, and I keep the bedroom door cracked open, just enough for a ghost to slip through. Tonight, I know he’ll come again. I’m not afraid anymore; I just wish I could hold him one more time. But maybe, in his own way, he’s holding me, waiting for the day we’re together again. Until then, I’ll keep the apple tree blooming, and I’ll listen for the padding of phantom paws on the stairs.

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