The Sway of the Pines

In the autumn of 2004, I took a job at Pine Hollow Kennels, a dog boarding and grooming facility tucked into the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains. The place was a maze of chain-link runs and weathered buildings, all encircled by a high privacy fence that seemed to swallow the surrounding forest. The main office and grooming room sat near the gravel parking lot, while the kennel building, a long, low structure of concrete and corrugated steel, hunkered behind it.

From my first week, I noticed odd things. A shadow would flicker across the frosted glass of the kennel door, but when I yanked it open, no one was there. The gate to the dog runs had a distinctive rattle, a metallic clatter that announced every entry, yet sometimes it would shake on its own, as if an unseen hand was testing the latch. My coworkers shrugged it off, blaming the wind or the settling of the old buildings. But the dogs knew better. They would stop mid-bark, ears pricked, staring at a corner of the room where nothing moved. Their hackles would rise, and a low, guttural growl would rumble from their chests, directed at the empty air.

I might have dismissed all of this as the quirks of an old kennel, but then came the morning of October 17th. I arrived just before dawn, the sky a bruised purple, the air thick with the smell of pine and damp earth. The parking lot was empty except for my truck, and the gravel crunched under my boots as I walked to the office. The other two workers, a wiry man named Dale and a heavyset woman named Rita, were already inside, their faces pale and drawn. They were hushed, and Rita’s hands trembled as she gripped a coffee mug. ‘Don’t go in the kennel alone,’ Dale said, his voice barely a whisper. ‘Something’s wrong.’

I asked what they meant, but they just exchanged a look and shook their heads. Finally, Rita spoke: ‘Last night, we were cleaning up. The dogs started going crazy, howling and throwing themselves at the kennel doors. We thought maybe a bear or something was outside. We went out to check the fence, but there was nothing. When we came back inside, the door to the back room was open. The room where we keep the old equipment and the boarded-up windows. We swear we closed it. And the dogs… they were all looking at that door, and they were silent. One by one, they backed into the corners of their runs, whimpering. We didn’t sleep at all. We just stayed in the office until you got here.’

I scoffed, but a chill ran down my spine. I’m not one for ghost stories, but something about the way they described it, the sudden silence of fifty dogs, unsettled me. I decided to check the kennel myself. I grabbed a flashlight and pushed through the heavy metal door. The air inside was cold, colder than it should have been, and filled with the scent of ammonia and wet fur. The dogs were all quiet, watching me from their runs. Their eyes reflected the beam of my flashlight like small, green lanterns.

I walked down the central aisle, past rows of cages, to the back room. The door was ajar, as Rita had said. I nudged it open with my foot, the hinges groaning. The room was a jumble of broken grooming tables, stacks of old towels, and cobwebbed shelves. Against the far wall, there was a boarded-up window, the plywood warped and cracked. The boards were not nailed shut, but held in place by a single, rusty hinge, and they swayed slightly, as if someone had just pushed them. That’s when I saw it. A small, crumpled photograph on the floor, half-hidden under a dusty blanket. I picked it up. It was a picture of a woman with dark hair, standing in front of this very building, smiling. On the back, in faded ink, was written: ‘Missy, we’ll always be together.’

I felt a breath on the back of my neck, cold and damp, like the exhale of a large animal. I spun around, but the room was empty. The dogs outside had started to whimper, a low, collective moan that made my skin crawl. I rushed out of the back room, slamming the door shut. When I returned to the office, Dale and Rita were huddled together, their faces white. ‘You saw it, didn’t you?’ Dale asked. ‘The photo?’ I nodded. ‘That was Missy, the owner’s daughter. She died out in the woods behind the kennel, a few years back. We never talk about it.’

I didn’t want to believe it, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was not alone. Over the next few days, the occurrences intensified. The gate would rattle at odd hours, the dogs would howl at nothing, and I would hear footsteps in the empty grooming room, the soft pad of bare feet on tile. I started to work double shifts, partly to cover for Dale and Rita, who were too scared to come in, partly because I was too afraid to go home to my silent apartment. The kennel had become my prison, and the dogs my only companions, but they were just as uneasy as I was.

One night, I was alone, doing the final bed check. The dogs were restless, pacing their runs. I heard the gate rattle, a sharp, metallic clanking. I froze, my heart thudding. I walked to the window and peered out into the dark. The gate was swaying, its latch unhooked. No one was there. Then I saw it. A figure, silhouetted against the trees, standing just beyond the fence. It was tall and thin, with long hair that moved as if in a breeze, though the air was still. It raised one arm and pointed directly at me. I stumbled back, tripping over a bucket, and landed hard on the concrete floor. When I looked up, the figure was gone.

I scrambled to my feet and ran to the door, throwing it open. The night was quiet, the only sound was the distant hum of insects. I stood there, breathing heavily, my flashlight beam trembling across the gravel. Then I saw the gate swing open, slowly, on its own. And from the darkness beyond, I heard a whisper, soft and clear, like the rustle of dead leaves: ‘You came back.’

I didn’t wait to hear more. I sprinted to my truck, fumbling with the keys, and drove away without looking back. I never returned to Pine Hollow Kennels. I don’t know what happened to Dale and Rita, but I like to think they got out too. But sometimes, in the quiet of my new life, I still see that figure in the trees, and I hear that whisper, and I wonder if it’s still waiting, knowing that I left something behind that belongs to it. The pines sway, and I swear, in their rustling, I can hear my name. And I know that no matter how far I go, the kennel, and the thing that haunts it, will always be with me.