Now, I want to say that Mr. Greene loved that little dog and they went everywhere together. His wife had died about ten or twelve years earlier and that’s when he got Bingo. He talked to that dog like it was a person and told everyone that having Bingo was what kept him from going crazy after Ann died. The people on the island never knew Ann. Mr. Greene didn’t move there until after she died. There was some talk about how strange it was for him to move to such an isolated place when he was grieving, most thought he should have been around people more. Grief is a strange emotion, and it can change a person if they’re alone too much. It’s not good to dwell on the past. There was also talk about where he came from (he was always sort of vague about that) and whether Greene was actually his real name. No one really knew much about him, except that he seemed to have plenty of money, he read a lot, and he loved that little dog.

After Bingo disappeared in the lake, Mr. Greene was different. He didn’t come to the pub as much, but he started drinking more. He had cases of liquor delivered from the mainland, which was cause for talk, because getting things delivered like that was quite expensive. People would see him staggering around near the lake and talking to himself—waving his arms and pointing at nothing in particular. Some folks said he was finally coming unhinged and that it was the result of bottling up his grief for far too many years.  Percy Graves told the men in the pub that he found Mr. Greene sitting by the lake once—drunk as an owl—and Mr. Greene told him that when Bingo fell into the water, he saw a pair of hands reach up and grab him and pull him down. Big hands, with long fingers and nails like claws. Not human hands, but something else. He had thought at the time that he’d been mistaken. Sort of in shock like, with Bingo falling in and disappearing like he did. But since then, he’d had time to think about it and he was sure that he actually saw those hands. After telling Percy this, he just sort of fell over and passed out, spilling his bottle of whiskey all over the ground. Percy decided that Mr. Greene must have been mistaken after all.

Everyone on the island liked Mr. Greene. He was just a harmless old man who enjoyed fishing. On one of the few occasions when he came into the pub after Bingo disappeared, Mr. Brewer suggested that he get another dog. For company, he said. After all, Bingo had been old and what if he had died of old age? What would Mr. Greene have done then? Wouldn’t he have gotten another dog to keep him company? And do you know what? That’s exactly what Mr. Greene did. He stopped drinking so much, went over to the mainland one day and came back with a little puppy that he named Balthazar. He said it was the name of an angel or something. He got the name from one of his old books. 

Anyway, a new puppy seemed to do the trick and Mr. Greene started coming to the pub every Tuesday evening, just like he used to. A lot of people were in the pub every night, but Mr. Greene only came on Tuesdays. Even though he was old, he seemed to stay busy and there was just something about him that made you feel he wasn’t the type to sit around a pub night after night. He had things to do. Someone said he was writing a book. He took the new little pup everywhere with him and talked to it like he did with Bingo, and it was a hit with the pub crowd immediately. This pup didn’t dance on its hind legs, but maybe it could have learned. If it had lived long enough.

One morning, just like usual, Mr. Greene got up and let Balthazar outside to do his business. Normally the little pup would wander around for a bit and then come back to the door and bark to be let in, because he’d be wanting his breakfast. They’d eat breakfast together and then go for a long walk. That was their routine. This morning, however, Balthazar didn’t come back to the door and bark to be let in. Mr. Greene waited and waited and kept looking at the clock. He had his breakfast cooked and sitting on the table, but it didn’t seem right to eat without his little pup there. 

So, finally he put on his coat and went out to look for Balthazar. He searched and called for nearly an hour before he decided to go in the direction of the lake. There’s something about that lake—it’s strange—and he hadn’t been back there since he quit looking for Bingo weeks ago. He’d never gone back to the lake and had stopped fishing altogether. That’s where he found it—at the lake. On the lakeshore, just in the edge of the grass, was what was left of his little pup, Balthazar. It was difficult to tell exactly what it had been at first. The poor little thing had been ripped to pieces and scattered around on the rocks. Even its head was unrecognizable, and its jaw was a good ten feet away—split in half and laid out with the teeth sticking up like a dinosaur’s spine. Mr. Greene recognized the fur though, and the little pup’s red collar was there. 

After he’d been sick in the grass, Mr. Greene looked at the remains of the dog some more. Whatever had killed it had been strong, that much was obvious. It also hadn’t been hungry because the dog wasn’t eaten, just killed and mangled in a horrible way. What kind of a wild animal would do that? Because it had to be a wild animal, didn’t it? That’s the only logical explanation. At first he wanted to take the remains and bury them near the cabin, and he thought about going back home and getting a burlap bag (and a pair of gloves), but he didn’t think he could bear to touch it. The smell of blood and meat, and the buzzing of the flies was making him feel dizzy and he thought he was going to be sick again. So he just went home. Nature would take care of the remains.

On the very next morning, what do you think happened? Mr. Greene was sitting down to his breakfast when he heard a dog bark outside. He knew it couldn’t be one of his, since both of his dogs were dead, and so he ignored it for a while. He wasn’t even sure if he was actually hearing a dog, but eventually he got up and went to the door. When he opened it and looked out, he could hardly believe his eyes. There, sitting on the stoop, was Bingo! The little dog jumped up and danced on his hind legs and seemed so happy to be home again. Mr. Greene was in shock and just stared as Bingo wiggled and wagged and grinned at him. Bingo had been gone for nearly four months now, and Mr. Greene had searched every square inch of the island looking for him. And yet here he was, back again and looking no worse for the wear. A bit thinner perhaps—and dirty—but the same Bingo that had disappeared into the lake. 

Mr. Greene let him in and put out some food. Bingo ate like he was starving, and maybe he was. He rattled the dish against the floor and spilled kibble that he immediately gobbled up. After licking the dish, and the floor around the dish, he sat down and looked at Mr. Greene with his head tilted and ears pricked as if to say ‘what now?’ That was when Mr. Greene noticed the smell. It was a sort of dead smell, like a squashed animal that had been laying in the road for a while—but musty as well, like old toadstools or dusty books. It wasn’t overpowering, but it wasn’t pleasant either. He decided it must be from where Bingo had rolled in something—dogs were likely to do that—so after breakfast he gave Bingo a bath. 

And that was that. Bingo had come home. Everyone on the island was puzzled, and no one could explain it, but they all knew how strange the lake was and how things happened there. I think that was when people stopped going to the lake. People on the island I mean. And no one talked much about what happened. They just accepted that Bingo had returned.

For Mr. Greene and Bingo, it was life as usual. They went everywhere together and he talked to the little dog constantly and Bingo entertained everyone at the pub on Tuesday evenings by dancing on his hind legs. But this isn’t the end of the story. Get comfortable, because there’s more. Much more. 

Mr. Greene started having nightmares. He hadn’t had a bad dream since he was a child, but now he was having them nearly every night. And they weren’t your average bad dreams either. They were worse than anything you could imagine—full of dead things that walked around, their bones making clicking sounds as they moved, and blood and gore and horrendous creatures that clutched and clawed at him. He would wake up in a cold sweat; sometimes he would even be screaming out loud or retching. And every time Mr. Greene woke up, Bingo would be sitting in his basket by the door, staring at him. Just staring. Before, Bingo would have come to comfort him if he was upset. Bingo was the kind of dog that could sense Mr. Greene’s mood, and he would always lean against him, or lick his hand in an attempt at comfort. That was something that had changed. Bingo didn’t try to comfort Mr. Greene anymore. He just sat across the room and stared at him. 

Sometimes Mr. Greene would wake up in the night even though he didn’t have a nightmare. He would just be restless and unsettled and his sleep would be fitful. When this happened, Bingo would be doing the same thing—sitting in his basket and staring at him. This behavior began to bother Mr. Greene, and he eventually got to where he couldn’t sleep at all. He would lie awake night after night, thinking about Bingo and sneaking glances at him every so often. Bingo would just be sitting there, staring at him. The entire night.

Mr. Greene began to worry about Bingo. There might be something wrong with him. The smell had come back and he had to give the dog another bath. And then another. Bingo had never smelled before—and he’d always slept well, even snoring loud doggy snores most nights. Mr. Greene took Bingo to the veterinarian on the mainland, just to have him checked out. He told the vet about the returning smell, and about how Bingo didn’t seem to be sleeping. Bingo had been to the vet before, but not often. They remembered him only vaguely, and had to refer to the notes in his records that remarked on how friendly he was. Bingo wasn’t friendly now. He wasn’t aggressive either. He just sat quietly and watched. When the vet offered him a treat, he ignored the morsel. 

The vet pronounced Bingo as fit as a fiddle. After double checking Bingo’s age, he then changed his opinion to absolutely remarkable health. The returning smell could be attributed to old age and regular baths were encouraged. As for his change in behavior—when told about Bingo’s disappearance and reappearance months later (told only in a vague lost dog sort of way), the vet put the change down to some trauma or fright encountered during his absence. They’d never know for sure, because Bingo couldn’t tell them. And so Mr. Greene and Bingo returned to the island. There was nothing physically wrong with the little dog.

You would think life would return to normal for the pair, wouldn’t you? Well, it didn’t. Night after night Mr. Greene had nightmares and night after night Bingo would sit and stare at him. Mr. Greene started suffering from his lack of sleep. His hands began shaking and dark circles crept in beneath his eyes. He stopped going to the pub again and spent most of his time in his cabin, watching Bingo watch him.

One evening, Mr. Greene was preparing his dinner when his hand slipped. The knife he was holding was very sharp and at first he didn’t even feel the cut. Blood poured from his finger all over the countertop and dripped onto the floor before he could get a towel wrapped around it. He had to go to the bathroom and get the first aid kit. When his finger was bandaged (he probably should go get it sewn up) he returned to the kitchen to find Bingo standing on his hind legs, stretching as far as he could, with his head turned sideways to lick at the blood on the counter top. The floor was spotlessly clean and shiny.

Mr. Greene wasn’t the squeamish sort, but seeing how eager Bingo was to lick up the blood made his stomach turn over. After shooing the dog away, he cleaned up the mess and sat down to his dinner. His plate of food on the counter hadn’t been touched. Bingo sat across the room and stared at him, ignoring his own dinner. And this is when it all got even more strange. 

Mr. Greene’s nightmares changed. In them, he was now continually chased by a dark monster with huge, sharp teeth and rotten breath. And he was always near the lake, but the lake was different in his dream. The water was black and filthy, choked with weeds and with a slick, iridescent sheen on the surface. The monster would rise out of the lake, its body dripping with fetid liquid, and attack him. He would wake up just before being devoured and spend whatever time was left in the night with all the lights on. He started reading the Bible night after night, and other books as well. He had two huge bookcases filled with thick, well worn books. Many of them were in a different language. Bingo would sit and stare at him. That’s all the little dog did now—just sit and stare at Mr. Greene. He stopped eating and stopped sleeping and didn’t want to leave Mr. Greene’s side—not even for a minute. Sometimes, when Mr. Greene looked in his direction, Bingo would lick his lips and Mr. Greene would swear he saw a glimmer in the dog’s eyes. Like hunger. 

Mr. Greene started writing lots of letters to people all over the world, most of them connected to various universities. The rumors about who he really was and where he was from grew. He lost weight and the skin on his face became stretched tight over the bones, showing off the angles of his skull. In the past, he’d been quite fastidious about his appearance, but now his hair grew long and unkempt and his dirty clothes hung on him like a scarecrow. One day he went to the post office wearing two different shoes. And he muttered to himself constantly instead of talking to Bingo. People began avoiding him and his little dog.

No one is really sure what happened, but Mr. Greene had some sort of an accident and two of his fingers were gone. Just gone. He never went to the doctor, but his hand was bandaged up for weeks. He started visiting the library on the mainland and requesting strange books to be sent over from Seattle. And everywhere he went, Bingo would trot along behind him with a big doggy grin on his face. This went on for several weeks as the weather grew colder.

When autumn arrived on the island, it felt almost comforting. As if everything that had been happening over the summer was just a misinterpretation of events. That’s when Mr. Greene went to see a priest. People on the mainland remembered later that it was a bit strange—how Bingo sat outside the church for hours while Mr. Greene was inside, talking to Father Damian. And Mrs. Mitchell even held the door open for the little dog when she left. She’d been there doing flowers that day and knew about how Bingo never left Mr. Greene’s side. Bingo refused to go inside the church. Mrs. Mitchell insisted that the little dog even growled at her when she gave it a bit of a shove towards the open door. He’d never been known to growl at anyone before. Ever.

Whatever transpired inside the church is a mystery, but Mr. Greene was extremely agitated when he came out. He and Father Damian must not have agreed on something. In fact, Father Damian requested a transfer that very afternoon, and left town just a few weeks after the meeting. No one knows where he went and it was almost a month before he was replaced. There were rumors that he even quit the priesthood, but I don’t know if that’s true.

It must have been about a week later when it happened. No one is exactly certain, because Mr. Greene lived alone and had become increasingly withdrawn in the weeks before. But when he quit showing up in the village all together, people began to talk. Mr. Brewer, who owned the pub, and a few other men went up the island to check on Mr. Greene. He’d obviously been unwell and hadn’t been seen for over a week, not since he’d returned from visiting Father Damian, so it was a natural thing to check on him. 

The smell was obvious before they even got to the door of Mr. Greene’s cabin. Their knocks received no answer, not even a bark from Bingo and they stood on the stoop for a while, debating what to do. An eerie silence hung over the little homestead as they stood there and a creeping sensation was felt by them all—although they would deny it if asked. One man kept rubbing the back of his neck as if smoothing down the hairs that were standing up. At last, Mr. Brewer reached out his hand, grasped the doorknob and pushed the door open.

The smell washed over them like a tsunami and with it a wall of sound. A drone of buzzing that seemed to swell and ebb like the wheezing of some horrible beast. It was the sound of hundreds of flies. When the door was opened, the flies took wing and careened around the room in a panic before streaking towards the opening. Their bodies formed a massive black mass that burst out of the cabin like the cork out of a bottle, slamming into the men on the stoop and making them stagger back, arms waving and slapping at the insects.

When most of the flies had gone, the men stepped back to the cabin door and peered inside, stopping in shock. Handkerchiefs were pulled out and pressed tightly over noses. Nearly every surface of the room was coated or splattered in blood that had congealed in thick globs of deep brownish red. The rich, metallic smell filled the room. Furniture was overturned, lampshades crushed and a chair smashed to pieces. Mr. Greene—or what once may have been Mr. Greene—had been reduced to  pieces of meat and torn clothes. Gory chunks of flesh were strewn all over the room and one long strand of his intestines hung from a light fixture like a greasy garland. A couple of the men turned away and were sick immediately, retching into the neat little garden beds that bordered the side of the cabin. The rest of them were too in shock to be sick—that would come later. 

A hand lay on the floor, one of the few recognizable pieces of Mr. Greene, with a jagged stump of arm bone protruding from the wrist. The end of the bone looked chewed. The hand was missing two fingers, just as Mr. Greene had been missing two fingers, and the spot where the fingers had been was healed in a puckered, white scar. What was smeared around the room was indeed the remains of Mr. Greene. There was no obvious sign of Bingo, but if the body of a small dog had been mixed into the carnage—it would have been nearly impossible to tell. Closing the door, the men returned to the village to contact the authorities. 

It took several days to sort out what had happened. In the end, it was decided that Mr. Greene had been attacked by some sort of large animal. It appeared that his body had been torn to pieces by teeth and claws, the flesh was torn jaggedly and there were bite marks on some of the larger chunks of flesh. A search was conducted of the entire island by a force of nearly a hundred men, but no large animal or trace of a large animal was found. It was theorized that whatever it had been, it must have swum to the mainland and escaped. It would take a powerful swimmer to go that far, fighting the strong current, but it would take a powerful thing to reduce Mr. Greene to the bits and pieces he had become. The town on the mainland was warned of the possibility of a dangerous animal being in the area and children were kept inside for months. Several people moved off the island then, and no one came to fish on the island the next summer.

During the search, one curious thing was found at the lake. The searchers walked past a pile of brush in the edge of the water again and again before one of them tripped over a stick, shifting the entire pile and revealing a tiny cadaverous leg. Twigs and leaves were moved aside, and underneath it all was the badly composed body of a little dog, reduced to mostly bones and fur. The dog looked like it had been a terrier of some kind—possibly a Jack Russell—and it had been dead for many, many months. The rotten leather collar around its neck fell apart when it was picked up, and the tarnished brass tag dropped to the rocks, making a tinkling sound that seemed to echo across the lake in the silence. The name on the tag was Bingo.