Can't You Guess My Name?
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Dude, you ever going to answer your phone? Dude.

Unknown caller. I say, "Those are the only calls you get, man!" He says as he grabs his keys and gives them a shake. "I'm out. Don't wait up. In fact, can you maybe not be here when I get back? Have fun on your date." I say as I ignore his request. "Have fun staring at imaginary dogs and ignoring your phone!" He shouts as he leaves. I sigh heavily. Tim's a jerk, and he's only still living here because I need help with the rent.

and he has every current video game console available. I think about playing one of those consoles, but that's not in the cards tonight. Tonight I watch the black dog stare up at my apartment as it perpetually sits by the bus stop. After a few seconds, I see Tim as he walks past the bus stop on his way to his car. The dog doesn't even acknowledge my jerk of a roommate. Those pitch black eyes continue to stare only in my direction.

Tim's car is half a block down and he hops in, starts up his car, turns up the music to a volume sure to piss our neighbors off, and drives past the bus stop on his way by the apartment. The black dog is gone when Tim's car passes, but I'm not surprised by this. The dog disappears all the time, especially when I ask people if they can see it too. No one has ever seen it but me. So I stopped asking, and I stopped being surprised.

What I am surprised by is a man sitting on the bench in the bus stop shelter, and he looks. He's dressed in a long black cloak, like he's Jack the Ripper or something. In his right hand, he holds a black cane with a silver top. I can't quite make out what the top's shape is, but it's some sort of animal head. Maybe a goat? At least the dog is gone. That's a relief. Except the relief changes to dread when the man puts his hand to his head.

His index and pinky fingers are out like he's pretending to make a phone call. My phone rings again and I jump. Unknown caller. I look back at the bus stop and the man in the cloak is gone. An old woman is sitting there instead. My phone stops ringing and I sigh. I check the time and panic. I'm going to be late for work. It takes all of my willpower to move from the bay window. If I didn't have to work, I'd wait there all night for the black beast to come back.

I've done it before. The dog always comes back. I steal a last glance to see if it's there, or if the creepy cloak guy has returned. But it's only the old woman, and she's busy picking her nose. I go to the kitchen, grab a bottle of cola, then cross the living room to my desk and log in to Slack. The apartment has two bedrooms with a living room common space, a kitchen, and a single bathroom.

My desk is in the corner of the living room and it's a sore spot between me and Tim. He wants to bring girls back, but hates how nerdy my desk makes the apartment look. He doesn't want any of that nerdiness to rub off on him, I guess. Or, God forbid, that one of his many conquests thinks the anime toys and comic book collectibles that cover my desk might belong to him. I'm getting real tired of his snide comments about it.

Slack comes up and there's a ping immediately for a team huddle. "Mom, ready?" I look at the clock and it's not even 8pm yet. Jesus, let a guy get settled, will ya? But that's how it is when you work remote and your team is spread across multiple time zones. "Nicholas," my boss, the owner of the media company I work for says as soon as my camera goes live. "Glad you could finally make it." "I'm on time," I say.

"On time is late, Nicholas," he says. "But since you are so confident you're on time, out you start." Jordan Miles. Lauded entrepreneur and tech savant. Or that's what his bio says. What he really is is a spoiled rich kid who lucked out when one of his YouTube channels took off. At the time, he was trying everything from pranks to product reviews to man-on-the-street ambush interviews to whatever he could come up with.

Then a channel he'd thrown up just for shits and giggles took off. Sexy Horror Fun Time. I shit you not. Basically, he ripped off the hot tub gamer girl idea and instead of games, he put a chick with big breasts and almost no bikini in a tub of blood and had her read classic horror stories. It was an instant success, almost, from the first episode. Which is how I got my job.

He found a couple of my short stories online and shot me an email, asking if I wanted to write for the channel. There were only so many public domain horror stories out there he could milk. He hired me to write for him, and now I manage the team of writers we have to keep. My phone rings again, and it's that goddamn unknown caller. I thumb the reject icon then open my phone, and swipe a few times until I've blocked the number. Not that it does much good. They always call back. "Nicholas?"

My eyes are drawn to the bay window. I wonder if the dog is back. Maybe it smelled the boogers that old woman was digging for and returned for a taste. That makes me laugh, and I'm about to get up from my chair and look when... "Nicholas!" I shake my head and turn to the screen. All of my co-workers' eyes are on me. A few look concerned. "Huh? What?" I stammer. "You pitch first," Jordan says, obviously annoyed. He holds up a finger.

"And if you mention a huge, black dog in your pitch again, I swear I'll reach through my camera and slap you." "What? Oh no. No dog this time," I say. "Better not be," Jordan mutters. "So, wow us with your story genius. We don't have all night." The phone rings once more. I turn it off and focus. By the time I get up from my desk, it's after midnight. The team meeting ran long. I had individual talks with each of the writers.

I messaged Jordan's assistant about an outstanding expense report and even managed to get a few words in on the new story. With at least four more hours of work to do, I take my empty cola bottle into the kitchen, toss it in the recycler, and open the fridge for more. And we're out. No cola. No food either. "Tim!" I shout. It was his turn to grocery shop. My stomach growls. I'm starving.

I could walk down to the corner market and get something. I glance at the bay window, and my mouth goes dry. Going to the corner market means walking past the bus stop and the huge black dog. I swallow hard. My stomach growls even louder. "Maybe we have some chips," I mutter to myself. "Stale crackers and Tim's protein bars, which I've been forbidden to touch." I steal another glance at the bay window. Then I walk over and stand to the side.

Slowly, I lean over and spy on the bus stop. There's nothing there. Not even the old woman. Which makes sense. Why would she still be waiting there? I'm a dumbass. My stomach growls even louder and I sigh. I have no choice, really. I need food and soda if I'm going to get my story finished and get all the editing done I need to do on the other writers' submissions.

I find my wallet, stuff it in my pocket, grab my keys, and leave the apartment for the first time in two weeks. The black dog first showed up two months ago on my 32nd birthday. Tim was being generous and took me out for birthday drinks and apps. I hate it when he calls appetizers "apps." But he said I had to call them that too or he wouldn't pay. He had a shit-eating grin on his face all night.

A couple of girls came up to talk to us, but I was so awkward that they left after a bit. Tim got both of their numbers. I think he's with one of them tonight. Since girls weren't in the picture, Tim decided that shots would be the activity for the night. After more than a dozen Jäger bombs, we stumbled to the bus stop. That's the first time I saw the dog. It was just sitting by the bushes just behind the bus stop shelter.

There were a few folks waiting for the bus, and none of them seemed to notice the giant canine watching them. It creeped me out, and I kept looking over my shoulder, glad there was a thick piece of plexiglass between us and it. "Dude, what are you doing?" Tim slurred after the fourth or fifth time I looked back at the dog. "That dog is freaking me out," I said. Tim looked back and shook his head. "That's a holly bush, dude," he said.

That's when I noticed a few frowns from the people waiting with us. "You all see it, right?" I asked, laughing. No one answered me. They all averted their eyes. I looked again, but it was gone. The bus pulled up and Tim had to smack my shoulder to get my attention. The dog had been there, I was certain. We got on the bus and Tim mocked me as I pulled out my bus pass. He flashed his gold Amex and the driver rolled her eyes. You couldn't use credit cards on our local buses.

He pulled out his debit card, paid his fare, and we took our seats. The dog was standing in the bus stop shelter as we pulled away. I said nothing to Tim. He was passed out and drooling on my shoulder anyway. The thing is, I would have forgotten all about the dog, and pretty much had by the time we arrived at our stop. Except it was there waiting for us. I froze on the bottom step of the bus's stairs.

Hey, Nicky! Been a while.

"Work," I say and head for the chips aisle. I snag a few bags, turn, and head towards the counter when I feel my phone buzz in my pocket. But I turned it off. I fumble the chip bags and they fall to the floor. "Here," Paul says as he hands me a plastic basket. He holds the basket as I fill it with the fallen chip bags. "Thanks," I say as I take the basket from him. My phone buzzes again.

"Sounds like you've got a text in your pocket!" Paul laughs. "Or your phone's just happy to see me!" I laugh too, but it's weak. The phone buzzes again. I hang the basket's handle on the crook of my arm and pull out my phone. There are several texts. All from an unknown caller. "Hello, Nicholas." "Don't be rude, Nicholas." "You can't hide forever, Nicholas." I turn my phone off again and shove it into my jeans. Then I freeze.

Sitting outside the market's doorway is the black dog, its eyes locked onto me. "You okay, Nicky?" Paul asks, then looks toward the door. He turns back to me and I can't miss the concern on his face. It's the default look I get from people these days. "Did you see something?" he asks. I look at the doorway and, of course, the dog has disappeared. "Nope, everything is good," I say. He smiles and goes back to his work as I continue shopping.

Some frozen pizzas, frozen burritos, frozen burgers, a case of cola, and I'm good. I set the basket on the counter, and Paul rings it up. "You're still seeing it?" he states casually as he scans a bag of sour cream and onion potato chips. "The dog? Huh? No." I say, and fumble my wallet out of my pocket. It falls to the floor so I bend over to pick it up. I take that moment to sneak another glance at the door. The dog is back.

"You know, grief manifests in all kinds of ways," Paul says from above me. "Have you tried counseling? Or a support group? Losing both your parents in a car accident is brutal, Nicky." Those eyes pierce me. They see right through me. I feel them locking onto my soul. Images slam into my brain. The phone call telling me my parents have died. The black dog showing up. Tim and his date.

My hands covered in, "Will that be cash or your soul?" I look up, startled. Paul isn't behind the counter anymore. The man in the cloak is. "What do you want?" I whisper. "For you to get back to how you were before." Paul answers. "Fun, Nicky. Happy Nicky. Or just not freaking me out, Nicky." I blink several times. "It's just Paul. Good ol' Paul." I cough and hand him my debit card.

I refuse to look over my shoulder at the doorway. I try to ignore the dog. I do try. "When my sister died from cancer a few years ago, I thought I'd never get out of bed again," Paul says, bagging up my groceries. "But I did. It took all my strength, but I did." He smiles and hands me the bags. "Now look at you. You're already out and about, so you're ahead of where I was."

I take the bags and he quickly writes something down on a piece of scrap paper. "Here, this is the grief support group I go to," he says, and hands me the scrap paper. The words "Unknown Caller" are scrawled in red ink. I don't take the paper. He purses his lips and shoves the paper into one of my bags. I stare at the bag. "Think about it, will ya?" he says. He snaps his fingers. "Icky? Sure," I reply. I don't mean it.

The dog is inside the store and blocking the doorway. A man scoots around the dog like it's a stack of boxes instead of a huge, black dog that must weigh close to 200 pounds. But people do that. I've seen them avoid the dog, walk right around it, or move seats in the bus shelter when it gets close. But no one acknowledges it. "Can I use the back door?" I ask Paul. "Seriously, Nicky. Please. You know where it is."

he says, and then smiles at the man as he walks up with a six pack. My family's lived in this neighborhood for generations. I used to work at the market when I was younger. I know where the back door is, and I've used it a few times ever since the dog showed up. I squeeze past supplies and stacks of soda. I have to juggle my bags to get the door unlocked and open. Paul will lock it after me as soon as he's free.

Behind the market is a narrow alley with a dumpster, a stack of flattened cardboard boxes, and a distinct smell of urine. If I turn right, I'll get to the mouth of the alley and to the cross street the market is on. Or I can go left and follow the alley all the way down to the other cross street, which would bypass the bus stop. I'd be half a block past my apartment, but it's worth it if I can avoid the dog. I turn left. The urine smell gets worse as I walk and I gag a little.

It's strong tonight, rank and awful. I reach the end of the alley and try not to scream. Silhouetted against the streetlights is the dog. He takes up the whole mouth of the alley like he's grown twice his size since I last saw him. "Go!" I snarl and swing my bags at it. "Get out of here!" The dog doesn't move. It never does. "Get away from me!" I roar and throw the groceries at the dog. I turn and run back the way I came.

This time, it chases me. It's never done that before. I hear its massive paws slap against the piss-stained concrete. The thing is right on my ass. Fear and adrenaline fill me and I pump my legs, hoping and praying that I'm fast enough to reach the market's back door. The echoes of the dog's footfalls are deafening. They fill the alley and fill my head. I scream as I clamp my hands over my ears. I dodge around the stack of cardboard and clip my shoulder on the corner of the dumpster as I grab for the back door's knob.

It's locked. I grip and turn, but it doesn't move. Paul! I shout as my fists pound at the door. The footfalls are so much louder. They pound into my skull while my fists pound the door. I can feel a hot, wet breath on the back of my neck. I scream again. Jesus Christ, what? Paul shouts as he yanks the door open.

I fall inside the back room, my legs kicking out at the dog I know is going to devour me. "Shoot it!" I cry, seeing the snub-nosed pistol in Paul's hand. "Kill it!" I scurry on my hands and knees across the room and press my back to the stack of sodas. Paul stares at me and then looks back at the door. "Shoot what, Nicky?" he asks as he steps out into the alley. "No!" I shout and reach out my hand.

Paul comes back in, looks at my outstretched hand, then shakes his head with pity on his face. "Nothing there, Nicky," he grumbles as he puts the gun in his jeans. He closes and locks the back door, just like every other damn time. He doesn't say anything else to me. He leaves the back room as the bell over the front door dings. I stare at the door. I'm not crazy. I know I'm not, right? My phone rings.

I get myself together and leave out the front door after about an hour. I don't see the dog anywhere. Paul doesn't say anything to me as I leave. I don't blame him. I cross the street and hurry my ass back to my apartment. Still no dog. I consider retrieving my groceries, but that means passing my apartment, crossing the street, and walking down the cross street to the alley. That's a lot of space to travel. A lot of doorways and nooks for the huge dog to hide in.

Not that it hides, really. I fish out my keys. Or attempt to. I slap my pockets. I have my wallet in my damned phone. No keys. Crap! Crap! Crap! Crap! They could be in the back room of the market! I pull out my phone, turn it on and make the call. "Renly's Market!" Paul answers. "Hey, did I drop my apartment keys there?" "Vicky?" "Yeah, sorry about earlier, but I think I..." I fidget on the sidewalk as I wait.

My eyes searching every shadow around me for signs of the fucking beast. Paul says when he comes back on. "Outta here." He hangs up. I bet they fell out of my pocket in the alley. Double shit! Groceries I can do without. I'll just steal one of Tim's protein bars and deal with his anger when he gets home. But I can't steal a bar if I can't get inside my apartment. And I know every window is locked too. Because I locked them all myself. So climbing the fire escape won't work. Shit. Shit! Shit!

I cross the street and nearly get hit by a car that I don't even notice. I barely notice the shouts and the middle finger from the driver. I wave an apology but I never take my eyes off the street ahead of me. When I reach the alley, my bags are still there which is lucky, and next to the bags are my keys, which is even luckier. I gather it all up and turn to run my ass back to my apartment.

Then I nearly piss myself as a man, not a dog, steps into my path. So much for luck. I lift the bags and cock my arms like I'm gonna swing at him, which I will if he makes a move. "You don't seem to like my dog," the man in the cloak says. "What?" "My dog," he says. "Barnabas?" I echo. "Yes, he's quite nice," the man continues. "He's not here to harm you. He's here simply to show you the way."

"The way? To where?" I ask, even though I know he's not there. That has to be what's going on. It's the simplest solution, and one I should have embraced a while ago. I'm 100% delusional. The man isn't standing in front of me. Just like the dog, right? Not there. I have lost my mind. Grief or whatever has driven me mad. I'm crazy as a loon, as the old people say.

"But, since you refuse to engage with Barnabas or answer any of my calls or texts, which is quite rude by the way, I am forced to fetch you myself," he says and points down the street with his cane. He's pointing the opposite way from my apartment. "No thanks," I say. "I'm going this way." I shove around him and race down the street. I don't stop and nearly get hit by a different car, but none of that matters.

I'm off the sidewalk, up the steps, in the door, and at my apartment in seconds. My lungs hurt from the effort. Everything hurts. It's been a night. I'm inside and bolting every lock on the door, which is a lot of locks. I've added to them over the past few weeks. I toss the groceries toward the kitchen, and they slide and spill across the floor. The groceries aren't my concern at the moment, as I rush to the bay window and look out onto the street.

The dog is back in place, sitting like it always does at the bus stop. Two women are in the bus shelter, laughing and hugging each other as if a giant monster isn't right next to them. "I want to scream at them to look! Just look to the right! Don't you see it?" I don't scream at them because of course they don't see it. I'm the crazy one, not them. But I do scream when a loud tapping echoes from my front door. "Nicholas?" The man's voice calls through the door.

You cannot hide forever. The hell I can't! The tapping continues for a few minutes. I stay right where I am and wait it out. Eventually, the tapping stops and I sigh. My stomach growls. I make my way into the kitchen, clean up the spilled groceries, and tear open a bag of barbecue chips. You have every right to be afraid, Nicholas. The man says as I turn to go to my desk. He's blocking my way out of the kitchen!

The scream is caught in my throat with the handful of chips I just swallowed. Coughing and spewing chips everywhere. I drop the bag and grab a kitchen knife from the counter. I swipe at him, but he doesn't even flinch. "Like I was saying," he continues, as if I'm not trying to slash him with a chef's knife. "You have every right to be afraid. After what you have done, Nicholas, you are not going somewhere pleasant, so you should be afraid."

"But your time is up, Nicholas, and this stalling simply will not be tolerated anymore." My arms grow tired and the knife droops down. "There we go," he says, and casually reaches out to pluck the knife from my hand. "Get out," I say. "I think not," the man replies. "But what I will do is allow you to leave, to take a walk back to that market, to see what you've done. Then when you come back,

You'll be able to see the rest of what you've done. Then, it will finally be time for you to go." "You're crazy!" I say, the irony not lost on me. He moves aside and gestures for me to pass. I don't hesitate. I'm around him and out the door so fast that I'm down the stairs and onto the porch before I even hear my apartment door slam behind me. I need to call the police and pull my phone out of my pocket. It's already ringing. Unknown caller.

I try to swipe the call away, but it refuses to quit. Enraged, terrified and confused, I chuck my phone across the street where it shatters at the feet of the black dog. "Fuck you!" I roar and head to the market. It's still open. Paul will let me use his phone. No cars honk at me as I cross the street, but when I get to the market, I'm wrong. It isn't still open. The door is shut and the lights are off. I knock on the glass, knowing Paul has to be there.

The market is 24 hours and a shift ends at 6 AM. But Paul doesn't answer. I press my face to the glass and peer inside. The place is a mess. Racks are knocked over and food is everywhere. And something yellow hangs from the counter. A strip of tape? I back away from the door and then I see it. Stuck, diagonally across the door in front of me is more yellow tape. "Crime scene! Do not cross!" is clearly printed on it. What the hell?

"You should have gone to the support group," Paul says from my side. I jump and hold up a fist. He laughs. "After what you did, I'm not afraid of that," he says, and lifts his shirt. His belly is split wide open, and he uses one of his hands to stuff his guts back inside. I gasp and manage not to vomit. "I was trying to help," Paul said. "That's all. Not cool, Nicky." I turn around and sprint back towards my apartment.

Well, no need to worry about whether or not I've gone completely fucking insane. I think I have my answer. I see Tim walking up the porch steps to our apartment with his arms around a girl. "Tim!" I yell, but he doesn't hear me, or he ignores me and keeps going. I race back to my apartment and take the steps two at a time. The door is open, and I shove it wide as I yell. "Tim!"

"What?" he shouts from his bedroom. "Tim!" I yell again as I swing my head back and forth, hunting for the man in the black cloak. "What, dude?" Tim asks as he walks out of his bedroom. I skid to a halt and stare. "What? What's wrong with you?" I ask, my words barely able to get past my lips. "What's wrong with me? What's wrong with you?" Tim asks. He's standing there naked, but he looks wrong. His skin is mottled blue and green,

His eyes are milky white. "Dude, I've got someone here," he says and gives me a thumbs up. He turns and walks back to his bedroom and I gasp. His back is covered in deep gashes. The apartment stinks like rotten meat. "I don't understand," I say. I start to follow him but I stop. Instead, I walk mechanically to my desk and plop down. I bump my mouse and the screen comes on.

There are over a thousand messages waiting for me on Slack. I read them all. The first dozen are asking me where I am, why I'm not responding to messages, why I'm not in huddles, and why I haven't checked my email or reported in to work. Then after that, they are all different versions of "I'm sorry you couldn't talk to me" or "I hope you found peace" or "You must have been in so much pain." I checked the dates just after the black dog appeared.

The messages petered off about a week ago. After that, there are no more messages at all. There's not even a record of the huddle I was in tonight. I whisper. "That is for you to discover," the man in the black cloak says from behind me. I see his reflection in the monitor and spin around. He smiles at me, and it's not an unkind smile. "Do you understand now?" I shake my head. "Then go have a look."

he says, and points his cane at Tim's bedroom. "I believe you will understand then." I do as he says. I can't find any reason not to. I mean, tonight can't get weirder, can it? Can it? It does. Tim's bedroom door opens with a soft push, and the rotten meat smell is even worse. There, lying in his bed, face down, is Tim, and next to him is a woman.

They are both coated in blood and the sheets around them have been shredded. Tim rolls over and flips me off. "Listen dude, I know we didn't always get along, but did you have to be so violent?" He reaches an arm over his shoulder. "Like, I can stick my whole finger all the way inside this one because you stabbed so deep. I didn't even get off before you attacked us." The woman says, rolling over too. Her eyes are missing and her chest looks like ground beef. "Jerk.

I sprint from Tim's room to mine, slam the door, lock it, and slide to the floor. I put my hands over my mouth. The smell is pretty bad in my room too. There's someone in my bed. I get up, even though I don't want to. I walk to the bed, even though I don't want to. I reach for the covers, even though I don't want to. I slowly draw the covers back. There I am, in my bed. A corpse. My throat is slashed.

I assume by the knife that is still gripped in my dead hand. "Do you understand now?" The man in the cloak asks from behind my bedroom door. "Why?" I ask. "An interesting question." The man replies. "And only one you can answer." "But may I have a guess?" I nod. "You've never been stable." He continues. "On medication, off medication, in and out of therapy, in and out of psych wards,

You were chaos from birth, Nicholas. Then the one stabilizing factor in your life is suddenly gone. My parents, I whisper. Your parents. The man nods and points at my corpse with the cane. It all became too much and you snapped, he shrugs. It happens, believe me. I've seen it every single day since the dawn of man. I killed myself? I ask. So much more than that.

He laughs and is suddenly in front of me. He taps my forehead with his cane. It all comes back to me. The first night I saw the black dog was the last night I was alive. Tim and I got home from my birthday celebration and instead of going to bed, he texts one of the girls from the bar. In minutes he has a reply and tells me to stay out of sight, which pisses me off. Like, a lot. It's technically my apartment and he's only my roommate. It's also my birthday.

The first since my parents died. The last thing I want to deal with are the sounds of him and some random chick of his going at it. But that's what happens. And my anger only gets worse and worse and worse until I go to the kitchen and get the chef's knife. Tim is on the woman when I shove the door open. He is so busy pounding away he doesn't even know I'm there. Until I plunge the knife into his back and the woman under him screams.

The only reason I stop stabbing and hacking the two of them is that my stomach growls. I was hungry. Apps aren't very filling. So, I walked to the market. I can see Paul's face go white when I walk in. I'm covered in blood and still holding the knife. He tries to talk to me, to figure out what's happened. When he reaches for the knife, I slash open his stomach. I grab a bag of chips and a cola and walk out. I eat the chips and drink the cola when I get home. Then I go to bed.

I don't remember killing myself, but that's not exactly surprising. "Now you understand," the man in the cloak says. "Who are you?" I ask. "Can't you guess my name?" He grins. When I leave the apartment, I see the crime scene tape on the outside of my door. I'm seeing a lot of things now, like the huge, black dog sitting in the bus shelter, waiting for me. I walk to the bus stop and plop down on the bench.

The dog eyes me but doesn't move. It may be an hour, it may be a year, but my bus arrives eventually. The dog walks on, I follow and take a seat. The bus's doors close and the driver pushes on to the next stop, and the next stop, and the next, until the bus is full. We arrive at a river. The driver opens the doors and everyone shuffles out. I see a long dock by the river and a ferry waiting.

I get up, ready to join the others. A gloved hand grips my shoulder and presses me back into my seat. "I'm afraid this isn't your stop, Nicholas," the man in the cloak says, sitting right next to me. "This is for those that haven't sealed their fate. They have choices to make, memories to ponder, you know." "What about me?" I ask.

"You, Nicholas!" he chuckles. "For you, there is one last stop." The driver starts the bus up again and we're off. By the time I smell the sulfur, I have guessed his name.