Muriel lived alone in an old Victorian house overlooking the rocky coast of Maine. She had grown lonely

in her old age and relied heavily on the comforts of her Newfoundland, Misty. Misty had taken

to sleeping under Muriel's antique canopy bed, and because of the bed's height, his furry body

just fit underneath. All his treasures

awaited him beneath the metal springs, bones, toys, biscuits, and riches of all kinds.

Muriel catered to his very fanciful whims, as she had no children to love. Every night, before going to sleep, Muriel would take down her long gray hair and brush each strand over and over again until it shines like the moon, she would say.

Misty would sit below her with his head peering out from the bed.

After she brushed her own hair, she would take the doggie brush from the bedside

table and brush Misty's bushylocks.

Misty would fall asleep every night as she performed this ritual.

Every morning, Muriel would wake and put her hand underneath the bed. Misty would greet her with a gentle lick on her hand, and Muriel would wake and put her hand underneath the bed.

Misty would greet her with a gentle lick on her hand,

and Muriel would know that she was safe.

Nobody visited Muriel except for the occasional postal worker and paperboy,

though she had recently taken to listening to the radio for news stories,

as her eyes grew weaker and weaker with age.

One particular night, Muriel could not sleep.

She awoke to a dreadful sound.

Dream.

Dream.

Dream.

Dream. Dream.

...