CW: Strong Language, Mention of Animal Abuse​

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        The Ghost
        Why could she see herself lying on the bathroom floor, and why on earth were her trousers rolled down to her knees? No way was this how it ended, not when she’d been such a prude all of her life. And that was a lot of cellulite on her bum. And why was there a large Tupperware next to her half-naked body?
        Wait a minute. The self-test...
        Had that bloody colon cancer self-test just killed her?
        Wendy tried to inhale, but she could not.
        Oh, no. Her foot had slipped.
        Oh, shit. She had smashed her head on the sink.
        She averted her eyes. That immobile, flabby, cellulity body depressed her—maybe it was for the best, after all.
        Wendy drifted to the living room. When was the last time she had dusted the chandeliers?
Her nostrils tickled at the sight.
        She tried to sneeze, but she could not.
        Her dear Toto slept on his bed.
        Wendy tried to whistle, but she could not.
        Yet Toto’s head rose and his ears pricked. He looked straight through her as she floated on the ceiling. His eyes went wild. He growled, barked, and ran to the bathroom door. She followed and shook her head as he head-butted the door to get inside. Then he howled and howled and howled.
        Oh, Toto, we spoke about this.

 

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        The Psychopath
        Sonny went to a different shelter every Monday at 9am sharp. He had a spreadsheet and
kept track, adding the dates of his visit, the adoption, the death, and the receptionist’s favourite
morning drink or food.
        He greeted Mindy with a mint tea. Minty blushed and giggled before unlocking the front
door. She let her index finger linger longer than necessary on his right hand as she grabbed the
paper cup.
        Sonny did his best not to recoil from her touch and forced a smile before nodding and
making for the back—where the old, injured, ill, lost, dumped, terminal animals cried, meowed,
or whimpered.
        It was hard to pick one to take home, but Sonny had rules. He could not take them all, it
would get too messy and smelly. Not that Sonny could smell much, but his neighbours could.
        He walked along the corridor until he spotted a tiny ginger dog cowering in its cage. Sonny squinted to read the card attached to the door. His name was Toto. His owner had died.

Toto was thirteen years old. Toto was perfect. Toto was coming home with Sonny.

 

        The Dog
        The cage Toto was in now might be bigger, but not better than the one they had shoved it
in to come to this... Wendy would have called it a horrible horrible place. Toto wanted Wendy.
Where was its human? It stunk here. It stunk of sadness, of loneliness, of panic, of death. And
the food was abysmal and dry, so dry it would not go down, not even after lapping all the water
in the bowl after a meal. And the man standing there, half sneering, Toto really didn’t like how
he stared at him. The man’s breath reminded Toto of fireworks and earthquakes. When the
horrible horrible man opened the door, Toto curled up in the corner of the cage and peed itself.
 

 

        The Ghost
        Wendy wondered if she was being punished. Surely, a lifetime of guilt ingrained by her
mother was enough. Yes, she’d swallowed her twin in the womb. So what? Now Wendy was
free, at last. And this looked nothing like the hell the nuns had scared her with during catechism.
        Fuck guilt. Maybe she should have used that word more often; it rolled off the tongue
like a Mentos exploding with Coke. Fuck, fuck fuck fuck, fuck. Guilt was for the living, not the
dead.
        The only one who had really mattered was Toto. Not even Rob could compete with that
love. Poor sweet Rob, who was as romantic as a broom, but provided just the right amount of
intimacy to make her feel normal. Would anyone let Rob know about her death? Did she care?
Not really. No more guilt.
        She let the spring breeze blow her non-existent-but-free-self along the national road to
the 9 Lives #<3 shelter. It was the closest one to home, so the most likely for Toto to be in.
        She hovered in front of the building pondering her options; maybe she could walk
through the walls. She tried to deep-breathe her way to a calm ghost, then remembered she could
not do that. Fuck it, you’ve got this. Wendy moved forward, but her lifelong friend,
claustrophobia, made her step back.
        She wanted to scream, but she could not.
        Why would this still bother her when the laws of physics did not? It was all in her
ethereal head. Maybe it had always been. Fuck this, she would take a deep breath, oh wait... yes
she would. She would take a deep breath, even a fake one. She closed her eyes and opened her
mouth, and feeling almost in control, stepped through the wall.
        Wendy hated the receptionist on sight; girly, green tea-healthy, desperate, young
know-it-all stupidity with a label. Mindy - She/Her.
        Wendy spent a couple of minutes swiping at the paper cup precariously edged on the top
counter until it toppled over on She/Her’s left hand. With great satisfaction—and a fuck guilt
whisper—Wendy then flew to the back.
        She couldn’t smell it exactly, but she could feel it in her non-existent bones. Toto’s fear.

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        The Psychopath
        Sonny grabbed the dog by its collar and threw it in the carrier. “It’s your happy day, you’re adopted!”
         Sonny shivered. He rubbed his palms on his jeans and gazed around, but the corridor was
empty. He sighed as he grabbed the handle of the box. “You’re coming home, little guy.”
        At the reception, he filled all the paperwork under Minty’s adoring yet apologetic
glaze—the stupid cow had wasted his green tea—and left in his Renault Twingo that had seen
better days. There was still a chill in the air. Weird.

 

        The Ghost
        Wendy’s anger gave her the strength to grab the roof of the car and get a free lift. When
they arrived, the front yard was tidy, the house appeared normal, but the back garden was
crawling with flying ghostly corpses; dogs, cats, bunnies, hamsters, birds, rats, and one fox.
 

 

        The Psychopath
        Sonny trembled. Cold sweat stained his shirt and trousers. He unlocked the front door and
threw the dog carrier inside before turning around to peek at the street. He took his time to make
sure, looking both ways. No one was watching him. He was safe. He sighed, stepped inside,
grinned, and locked the front door.
        “Welcome home, little guy.” Sonny patted his back pocket and grabbed his Swiss knife.
He pondered which tool to play with first.

 

        The Dog
        Toto readied itself for that horrible horrible man to come near the cage. It would bounce
and bite and bite and bite some more. It was ready to taste blood.

 

        The Ghosts
        Wendy listened to the whispered stories buried in the back garden and let her rage build.
She called the lost beings to her. A deep-rooted fog rose over the uneven grass. She blew her fury
at the little house. The walls shook, the kitchen window rattled and shattered. The vengeful souls
of the dogs, cats, bunnies, hamsters, birds, rats, and one fox cheered and followed Wendy inside.