It all started on a dark and stormy night. Rain lashed against the windows of my old house, each gust of wind sounding like a mournful howl. I was alone, as I often was, preferring the quiet company of my own thoughts to the boisterous energy of social gatherings. My only companion was Bartholomew, my scruffy terrier mix, a creature of pure, unadulterated love and loyalty. Or so I thought.
Bartholomew was usually my shadow, a warm weight at my feet as I read, a furry alarm clock in the mornings. But tonight, he was… different. He paced the living room, his tail tucked low, his usual playful barks replaced by low, anxious whines. I tried to coax him onto my lap, to soothe him with a scratch behind the ears, but he shied away, his eyes wide with a fear I’d never seen before. It was unsettling.
Finally, as the storm reached its crescendo, Bartholomew stopped his frantic pacing and looked directly at me. He padded over to my side, and instead of his usual affectionate nuzzle, he began to lick my hand. It wasn’t the slobbery, enthusiastic lick of a happy dog. This was… insistent. Slow, deliberate licks, as if he were tasting something, analyzing it. A shiver traced its way down my spine, unrelated to the storm raging outside.
“What is it, boy?” I murmured, trying to pull my hand away. But Bartholomew’s grip, though gentle, was firm. He continued to lick, his gaze fixed on my hand, his body rigid. A knot of unease tightened in my stomach. There was something about his behavior, so utterly out of character, that screamed danger. It was as if he knew something I didn’t, something he was desperately trying to warn me about through this strange, unsettling ritual.
I looked down at my hand, the one Bartholomew was so fixated on. It looked perfectly normal. No cuts, no bruises, no strange marks. Yet, his persistence was unnerving. He wasn’t just licking; he was scrubbing at my skin with his tongue, his rough surface creating a faint friction. I tried to remember if I’d touched anything unusual during the day, anything that might have attracted his attention. Nothing came to mind.
Suddenly, Bartholomew let out a sharp bark, a sound that was more of a warning than a greeting. He released my hand and backed away, his eyes still fixed on it, but now with a new intensity, a primal fear. He then turned and bolted towards the back door, scratching frantically, desperate to be let out.
Confused and increasingly anxious, I followed him to the door. The wind howled, and the rain continued its relentless assault. Bartholomew was now whining and barking at the door, his entire body trembling. I opened it a crack, and a blast of cold, wet air swept into the house. Bartholomew hesitated for a moment, then, with a final, fearful glance back at me, he bolted out into the storm.
I stood there, the open door letting in the tempest, my hand throbbing faintly where he had licked it. The strangeness of the evening settled over me like a shroud. Why had Bartholomew behaved like that? What had he sensed on my hand? Was it a premonition of something terrible? Or was it something far more sinister, something lurking just beyond the veil of our ordinary reality that only my dog could perceive?
I closed the door, the sound echoing in the sudden quiet. Bartholomew remained outside, his barks growing fainter as he moved further into the darkness. I stood there for a long time, listening to the storm, my hand still tingling. The mystery of Bartholomew’s behavior, the dog licking my hand with such intense, fearful focus, left me with a chilling dread that lingered long after the storm had passed. It was a night that etched itself into my memory, a testament to the unsettling unknown that can lurk even in the most familiar of companions. And as I finally went to bed, I couldn’t shake the feeling that Bartholomew’s strange, scary story was far from over.
