Free Every House Is Haunted by Ian Rogers Page A

with blankets, and waited. It had started to snow and I spent the next hour or so catching flakes on my tongue.
    At some point I fell asleep. I woke up sometime later to the sound of canvas ripping. I didn’t move. I made sure the safety on the Garand was off, then I slowly peeled back the blankets and looked out.
    The dog thing was there, by the fence. Its head was down and its jaws were working in a mad frenzy. It didn’t eat like a normal animal—it didn’t chew. It was like a machine that had caught something in its gears and was now ripping it to pieces.
    I must have made some kind of sound, because it suddenly snapped its head up and glared at me. I raised the rifle, socking the butt into the crook of my shoulder, and fired. The bullet went through the dog thing’s mouth and out the back of its head.
    It fell on its side, twitching. My second shot caved in its chest. There was no blood. Not even a drop.
    Dec 28
    The days are getting chilly. Something that tends to keep people indoors. Not me! I spend most of my days outside, in the hammock. If it weren’t the danger it is, I’d probably sleep out here.
    The dog didn’t bleed
. That thought keeps coming back to haunt me. I don’t have any answers. I don’t even have theories anymore.
    The tentacles found me today. They came over the railway embankment. One big one and four or five little ones. The big one stayed on the tracks. I prayed for a train to come. The little ones were farting around in the cinders at the foot of the embankment. One of them found an old rusty shopping cart and dragged it back over the tracks. Finders keepers.
    I’ve come to the conclusion that the tentacles are not guided by any deep-rooted intelligence. This comes after spending the day watching them fight over the patio chairs I had tossed over the fence . . . what? A month ago? Has it been a month?
    They seem to operate solely on instinct—which is why I haven’t taken any shots at them. Not until they give me a reason. They took the chairs back over the tracks and I haven’t seen them since.
    Will they be back? I wonder. To which Barney would have said: Does Howdy Doody have wooden balls?
    December 29
    Tentacles stole my Christmas tree.
    Sounds like one of those tabloid headlines, doesn’t it? Except this one is true.
    Of all the post-Christmas chores, taking down the tree is the one people put off the most. Not me! I came outside this morning to do that very thing and found half a dozen tentacles (including the big one) dragging it over the fence. They didn’t even knock the angel off. Who do you call to get rid of your Christmas tree? 1-800-T-E-N-T-A-C-L-E-S!
    Looks like I won’t be staying outside anymore.
    December 30
    Dreamed of God again last night—several of them, in fact. They were asleep in a warehouse very similar to my own, lying in row upon row of hammocks. There must have been hundreds of them. On the wall was an enormous digital alarm clock ticking that cast an eerie red glow over everything. Next to the clock was a sign that said QUIET PLEASE .
    I gotta find a way to wake them up.
    December 31
    Stayed outside last night. Was curious to see if anyone would light off any fireworks. Didn’t see any.
    It’s becoming harder to stay indoors. I was sitting in the hammock, staring at the stars, and they didn’t look right. I don’t know anything about constellations, but I can’t shake that feeling. They just don’t look right.
    The tentacles are getting closer. They’re sliding along the outside of the warehouse right now. The sound is driving me crackers.
    I’m going to try and sleep. I’ve got work to do. No snooze button for the gods. Time to roll them out of their hammocks.
    January 3?
    The gods are not in my dreams—they are here! I think that’s the message—what Barney would have called the real-life truth.
    I know what the tentacles are. They’re not attached to anything. They’re the highways to the gods! And the ramblers are their disciples,