Lately I like to think that I was wrong about the inevitability of Basil's gruesome demise at the hooves of one of her animals. Pepper enjoys her life of luxury far too much to bite the hand that feeds her. Greg (one today) didn't even kill his original owner, which, if I'm understanding things right, was kind of his job? And Dark Larry, my sweet boy, would never.

  However.

  I'm watching Basil wave with unbridled cheer as two cars pull into the farm's long driveway, aglow with all the sweetness of one who has never known trouble in this world, and I guess I do still worry. It's like she forgets that bad things happen.

  Basil turns around, spots me in the kitchen window, and gestures for me to join her. I'm ready for a break from scouring rusty 19th century cast iron pans. I head over.

  Basil takes the first car, a battered van that looks like it's somewhere in the middle of becoming or being decommissioned as a food truck. That leaves me with the second, a navy blue sedan. Before I can even get a good look at who's inside, the passenger window is down and a shoebox is being thrust into my solar plexus.

  “Afternoon,” I cough, taking hold of the box. It's wrapped so thoroughly in packing tape, I think it might be waterproof. “What do we have here?”

  I see movement out of the corner of my eye and glance over at Basil just as a small horse steps out of the back of the former/future food truck. What timing! I just got the stable fixed up last week. It'll be great to get some use out of it.

  Tuning back in with the sedan folks, I catch the passenger- a visibly sleep-deprived teen- ask if we're professionals.

  “I'd say we're getting there,” I offer, probably more honest and less reassuring than they'd hoped for.

  Basil’s people say something about a dog. How many animals are we getting today? On second look, I see that the small horse is actually said dog, an alarmingly large one, and I'm officially paying zero attention to the sedan people.

  The dog's owners, an older couple with tremendous cardigan game, squeeze one another's hands.

  “We love him so much,” fish cardigan begins.

  “We just can't take all the death,” peacock cardigan concludes.

  I'm thinking: Basil. BASIL. You HAVE to ask follow-up questions. And she does, but they're:

  “Is he fixed? And up to date on his vaccinations?”

  So at least we won't be dealing with unspeakable violence and canine influenza. I turn back to my folks, who are being admirably chill about me ignoring them. In fact, they're thanking me. I feel I've missed something. The shoebox I'm holding starts to shake, and I realize it has no air holes.

  “Hey, what’s–” The tired teen rolls up the passenger window. Fair enough, honestly. I was being pretty rude there.

  I take a box cutter from my pocket and try to reassure whatever is inside the box. “I'll get you out. Hold tight and, uh, please know I'm not the one who boxed you up.” I gently cut along the edge of the lid. “Be cool and don't kill me the second I free you, okay?”

  But there's no animal inside. It's a porcelain doll.

  “Ooooh, no, this isn't really what we…” I look up, and the sedan is halfway down the driveway. “Right. Well, maybe it's not haunted.” I look down, and the doll is all the way gone- not in the box, and nowhere to be seen.

  I sigh.

  “Jaye!” Basil sings out as I close the shoebox in defeat. “Let me introduce our new friend!”

  She pops up by my side, presenting a dog that sits at eye level before me, his short fur void-black save for pristine white paws. Pointed ears. Tail like a baseball bat. Empty eyes a match set with the doll I just set loose upon us. More muscles than could possibly be necessary… I can’t suss out a breed that doesn't include a gorilla somewhere in the family tree.

  Basil tells me, “His name is Socks. That nice couple who were taking care of him said it confused a lot of people, but I hate to rename an animal. It feels disrespectful to them, somehow.”

  “Black dog, white paws. Don't see what's confusing. I wouldn't worry about it, boss.” I tilt my head as I stare into those vacant eyes. Unnerving, yes, but not hostile. Maybe ‘all the death’ referred to squirrels? “He seems chill.”

  “I think so too! They said he was a stray, but well behaved.” She produces a stack of papers held together with a straining rubber band. “Their vet gave him a clean bill of health. No chip. Abandoned, maybe.”

  “He is a pretty big boy. Think somebody got him as a puppy, left him on the street when he started growing?”

  “Could be.” Basil brushes past the thought by announcing, “He'll need supplies! A bed, food and water dishes, tags, food of course…”

  “Those people didn't give you anything?”

  “No, they only had him for a little while and were using their other dogs’ things. But here, you'll have a whole kingdom, won't you?”

  Socks stares unblinkingly ahead.

  Basil giggles. “I'd better get a move on! It looks like he usually has dinner at six, so- Oh! I almost forgot. What did you get?”

  I tuck the now-empty shoebox under my arm. “Nothing. Just some old doll.”

  “How funny. They must have thought we were the antique store down the road. Speaking of, that would be a great place to find a few things for Socks. And I can hand out more missing posters for Herb. Want me to bring the doll with me?”

  “Naaaaaaaaaah,” I stall, trying to think fast. “I'll see if my aunt wants it?”

  “Great. Do you mind keeping an eye on Socks for a little while?”

  “On it.” I watch him for any sign whatsoever that he's registering Basil's departure, and I find none. “Hey, buddy, between you and me,” I whisper, “there are five antique stores in Wakemouth, and all of them are landfills. I wouldn't get my hopes up she'll find anything good.”

  Socks blinks, proving at the very least he is still alive.

  “Cool. Hey, so, you're not a Cujo, right?”

  Nothing. I think we might have a normal pup on our hands here. I'm starting to feel kind of awkward, wondering if I even remember how to interact with ordinary animals.

  “No,” Socks says.

  “Huh. Wait, were you reading my mind, or answering my Cujo question?”

  Greg snorts behind me. “That guy don't know who Cujo is.”

  “Wha- Dude! Why are you out of your pen?”

  “Some weird kid let me out.”

  I scrunch up my face in confusion, then remember, “Ugh, the doll! I gotta figure out what we're dealing with. You two,” I order, “follow me. We'll gather everyone up in the barn. Safety in numbers and all that.”

  Greg falls in line right behind me, prompting Socks to do the same. I didn't really expect them to listen. Greg, especially; his immediate cooperation is more suspicious than the murder dog and the demon doll combined.

  “It might not be possessed by a demon,” I think out loud. “The doll, I mean. It could be a human spirit.” Kicking a rock out off the path, I mumble, “It won't be. It's never a human in the movies.”

  “Chucky was human,” Greg counters.

  “I don't want to talk about Child's Play lore right now, man.”

  “Cute way of saying I'm right.” He snuffs, pleased with himself.

  Pepper, also outside of her enclosure, spots us approaching and marches right up to me. “Excuse me,” she says with a small stomp. “Are you aware that there's some kind of awful little gremlin running around all over the farm? Being a nuisance? Disturbing everyone??”

  “Yeah, I'm aware. It's… probably fine.” I pinch the bridge of my nose. “I mean, ghost or demon, what harm could it possibly do here? Right?”

  “I don't know what you're talking about, but I don't like it,” Pepper says.

  “I know, Miss Pepper.” Her stance softens a little. “Listen, come with us, okay? I'm bringing everybody to the barn.”

  “Very well.” She walks with great dignity behind me, joining Socks to ask him, “Are you here to fix the gremlin problem?”

  As I guide our little parade toward Dark Larry's pen, I listen to see how Socks will answer. He moves with his head lowered and eyes raised. It's hard to tell if he's thinking or ignoring the question until he says, “No.”

  “What? Another stranger, just wandering loose?”

  “He's not a stranger. This is our new dog. Socks, meet Pepper; Pepper, Socks.”

  “And what am I?” Greg says. “Chopped liver?”

  “Where did you even learn that phrase?” It is true that I never introduced him, though.

  Greg says, “I'm a worldly fella, Jane.”

  “I'm not- ugh. You know my name. You've literally used it. Socks, this is Greg. Greg, Socks.”

  “What about me?” Dark Larry asks from the back of the livestock line.

  I halt, causing Greg to run into my calf with, I feel, at least half of his three hundred pounds, knocking me off my feet. Pepper catches me- I basically sit down on her back- and launches straight into lecturing:

  “Gregory! You have to be more careful! Humans are incredibly fragile!”

  Picking myself up, I choose to be touched rather than insulted. It's not like she's wrong. “My fault, totally my fault. DL! How long have you been following us?”

  “I had to leave my pen,” he explains meekly. “There was some really scary trash in there. It bit my tail.”

  Pepper stomps, furious. “It bit! Larry's tail!”

  “Okay.” I clap to boost morale or something. It's not super clear to me why I do it, if we're honest. “Team, we've got a doll that appears to be possessed trying to wreak havoc on our farm.”

  “That's a doll??” Dark Larry whispers, eyeing Socks with alarm.

  “Oh, no, this is Socks.”

  “Like a… sock puppet?” Poor DL is visibly straining to align this information with what he's seeing.

  “Uh. Let's start over. Dark Larry, meet our new dog, Socks. Socks, this is Dark Larry. I think that's everyone introduced. Separate from the dog, there's a creepy doll, and we're all going to the barn now so we can, well, hide from that? No. Strategize. So we can strategize.”

  The animals exchange uncertain glances, except for Socks, eyes ever ahead, and Greg. He takes charge. “You heard the lady, chop chop! Everybody move in a calm and orderly fashion to the barn.”

  And so we do.

  Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  Greg takes the lead, wagging his tail and grunting cheerfully as we walk along. He explains the plot of Child's Play to Dark Larry, who seems to think these are real life events. I can't blame him. For all I know, Dark Larry has already met whatever’s possessing the doll during his time with the local Satanists; his baseline for normal is understandably skewed.

  When we reach the barn, Pepper sniffs the door and asks, “How do we know it's not in there, waiting for us?”

  “If it is, then good!” I open the box I've been carrying around. “We just have to stuff it in here. It can't fight all of us.”

  As I open the door for everyone, Dark Larry looks up at me with wonder in his infernal eyes and asks, “Is that a magic box?”

  “Hmm, I don't know about that, buddy. But it was able to hold the doll before, so why not now? Okay, game face, everybody! In we go!”

  I stand ready to clap the shoebox around any fleeing objects, but our charge isn't exactly striking fear into hearts. For his part, Dark Larry puts in an earnest effort, gritting his teeth and running ahead horns-first. He's also closing his eyes and squealing. Greg trots behind him chanting, “Larry! Larry! Larry!” Socks parks himself right inside the entrance and stares. With a flick of her tail, Pepper saunters in last, once it's clear there's no evil force present that we didn't bring in ourselves.

  “Good effort, team.” I've calibrated my sarcasm such that only Dark Larry misses it. “Man, I wish I'd asked Dr. Baines for holy water. I guess this is what they mean when they say you have to be proactive, not reactive.” I plop down on an octogenarian milking stool.

  “I know that one!” Dark Larry’s ears swivel forward. “Does Basil read her business books to you, too?”

  Can't help smiling as I say, “No, but she leaves her notes, like, everywhere. Anyway, who needs holy water? We have a base, we have weapons.” I gesture first at the old farming equipment, then Socks. “This guy’s basically a brick wall with teeth.”

  He's looking at the wall. Maybe through it, who knows? As I start collecting rusted garden tools, I ask Socks, “You're on team Jaye, right?”

  While he chews on that one, I place an ax, a pitchfork, and a scythe on the floor in front of the stool. The scythe seems like asking for trouble. The pitchfork would give me good range, at least, but the ax seems more threatening.

  Socks turns to me and asks, “What?”

  “Are you on our side?”

  “No,” he answers, “no sides. Only work.” He nods to himself.

  It's not what I hoped to hear, but hey, he's tripled his vocabulary. Picking up the ax, I start to ask what work, then notice something. “What happened to your paws?” They're as black as the rest of him.

  Socks tilts his head at me and wags his tail a little. I try again, “Did you step in something? It's not that dirty in here.”

  “You gotta get those eyes checked, Jan,” Greg snorts. “No wonder you're always asking how many of me there are.”

  “You know my name!” I snap, setting down the ax. “Look, his paws are-”

  Socks has four white paws again. He's also turned his entire body around to face me, his eyes fixed firm on mine. “Huh. Not really a fan of that. Okay, I'm getting distracted- one thing at a time. You think dolls can get tetanus?” I grab the ax.

  Socks loses his socks once more. Greg says, “Why not just get Dark Larry to eat the thing?”

  I put the ax down. White paws.

  Dark Larry says, “Oh, I tried. It tasted awful, and then it screamed. I didn't like that at all.”

  I pick up the ax. Black paws.

  Pepper’s interest is piqued by Dark Larry’s comment. “What did it taste like?”

  “Sulfur-y? I wonder if that's what I taste like…”

  Ax down. White paws. I reassure Dark Larry, “I'm sure you taste great, sweety.” He seems cheered by this, which will only encourage me to keep saying bonkers stuff in the future, but I have other concerns right now.

  I take the pitchfork, see snow white paws, and point at Socks. “You're coming with me.” He obliges without argument. “Everybody else, hang out here while we assess the situation. If you see the doll, call for me.”

  After closing up the barn, I hold out the pitchfork and do a slow spin as I search for signs of trouble. Nothing so far. Socks and I set out on the dirt path that spans the farm.

  “So,” I say, “you're a Grim.”

  “I'm Socks.”

  “Uh huh. What I meant was, you warn people who are about to die?”

  “Yes! The work!!” He perks up, and in his eagerness, he looks like a dog for the first time. “I'm good at my job.”

  I gently counter this by pointing out, “You could have just told me I was gonna gank myself with that ax.”

  “No,” he chuckles. “Can't tell humans anything. They speak human.”

  “Mm hm. I mean, we are having a conversation right now.” Socks ignores this observation. “But okay, your paws are white, so that means I'm not in immediate danger. That's a handy indicator. You're gonna make a pretty good guard dog.”

  I don't get confirmation or denial, so I hope out loud, “Maybe the doll isn't out to hurt anybody.”

  No sooner have I spoken these foolish words than a plume of smoke rising from Basil's kitchen window catches my eye. I ditch my weapon to break into a run- Socks might show me if I'm about to die, but I have a sneaking suspicion he’ll let a nonfatal stab or two slip past unnoted.

  Inside the kitchen, all the gas oven stovetop burners have been turned up to maximum with one of the cast iron skillets still on top. I cry out, “Not the good pan!” and attack the knobs until all fires are gone. “Jeez, that's a lot of smoke. I think it's okay, though.”

  Socks doesn't care. He's gazing into the void. No… actually, he's looking at something on the ceiling.

  Knives.

  Knives driven halfway to their handles into the rafters form a crooked line above me. “Good news,” I say as I count them. “Pretty sure that's all the cutlery. At least it didn't take any with it.”

  Outside, the crows screech and flap their wings in a fury, cawing, “UNWELCOME.”

  “I think I know where it might have gone,” I say, leading Socks toward the cacophony.

  The crows like to congregate in the old apple tree behind Pepper’s pasture. One of those forgotten New England varieties from colonial days that twists and writhes up out of the earth, with small, sour fruit suitable only for turning into alcohol. A small but loud murder roosts in its branches.

  I haven't interacted with them yet. They intimidate me a little- I've always wanted to make friends with a crow, and I keep thinking I'll blow my chance. It's no time for social anxiety, though. I announce myself as I approach the tree, “Afternoon! We haven't really met. I'm Jaye.”

  With no reason to think I can understand them, the crows don't respond. I was hoping they'd say something to each other that I could work with.

  I press on, “I'm looking for a doll? Um… Right! Unwelcome! I heard you say unwelcome a minute ago.”

  All eyes are on me now.

  “H-hi. Jaye, like I said. Did a doll come through here?”

  They ask in unison, “YOURS?”

  Definitely blowing it, I tell myself. “Nonono, not mine. I'm trying to get rid of it. Did you see where it went?”

  One of the smaller crows hops down to a low branch and looks me over, head bobbing up, down, and side to side. The murder commands, “EXPEL IT.”

  “That's the plan.” I'm thinking they for sure know this is my fault. “Where is it now?”

  “UNKNOWN.” The small crow rejoins his friends in the higher branches.

  “Great,” I sigh. “Hey, by the way, you've been saying ‘soon’ a lot lately. Is something happening?”

  They take flight, their excited chattering almost drowning out their answer: “THE ARRIVAL.”

  Knowing that much is going to bug me so much more than knowing nothing. “Come on, Socks,” I refocus. “Let's cover some ground. Maybe we can work in a game of fetch while we're at it.”

  He perks up momentarily, but rapidly assumes his air of detachment and vague foreboding as we meander away from the apple tree.

  “Do you play fetch?”

  “I work,” he says resolutely.

  . . .

  “Do you will your paws to change color, or does that happen automatically?”

  We've been walking the dirt path for some twenty minutes, at least, with no sign of the doll.

  After much thought, Socks says, “You change them.”

  “Huh. What does that mean?” I reach one hand out to him, letting him sniff it before I scratch his ears. “Man, it's like you have washboard abs but they're on your head. So, your paws, they don't actually change? And it's just the perception of the person who's about to die?”

  “Yes. Perception.”

  “If I think I'm going to die, but I'm not actually going to, will I still perceive black paws? If I'm really, really convinced?”

  We've made it halfway to the main gate, and I can see Basil unpacking her car. Socks acknowledges this with a low boof before saying, “No. Only real death.”

  “What if I think about killing someone, will they see black paws? I guess I'd really have to mean it, right? Man. What a morbid question to ask. For the record, I don't think about killing people, like, ever.”

  Watching Basil carry a small mountain of dog supplies past the barn, I remind myself we still have to do something with the car morgue her uncle left in the house driveway. Poor thing’s always parking out by the gate. Come to think of it, the mini junkyard is the perfect hiding place for a doll.

  Panicking a little, I jog up to her, hoping to thwart any surprise attacks by shouting, “Hey, boss! Find some good stuff?”

  “Yes! I got some amazing deals!” She ignores me gesturing that I'll take some of the load and grins at Socks, who has planted himself next to me. “Look! He already likes you!”

  No confirmation, but no denial either from Socks. I say, “We've been touring the farm.”

  “That's great. Say, why is everybody in the barn?”

  I'm just not prepared to navigate trying to explain. “Oh, well, I figured… you know, to introduce him to one everyone.”

  “I love it! Thank goodness. I was worried that coyote had come back.”

  This would have been a much more reasonable explanation, yes. “Want some help with that stuff?”

  “I got it- continue your tour!”

  Basil is off before I can insist, so I leave her to it. “You know, Socks, we might have our own problems around here, but there's a lot we don't have to worry about. I'm pretty sure Pepper taught that coyote how to feel existential dread. Doubt we'll be getting any more visits.”

  Socks has nothing to add to this train of thought.

  “I bet there's not much that could get past you, either,” I persist as I peer through dusty, cracked windshields in search of movement.

  “Yes,” he agrees, quietly proud.

  “Totally. With you looking out for Basil, we'd have nothing to worry about.”

  Socks sniffs at something in the grass. I wish we could get some kind of rapport going. Of course he won't commit to protecting Basil- he barely knows us.

  “Maybe I've got the wrong idea.” I leave the auto graveyard behind. Somewhere between the house and the pasture, I find a tree stump to sit on and I tell Socks, “We should let the doll come to us. These kinds of things always pop up when you aren't looking for them, right? They love a good jump scare. I don't blame ‘em. Jump scares are unfairly maligned if you ask me.”

  I'm not breaking any ice here. “Listen to me. Been spending too much time around Greg,” I chuckle, kicking a rock loose from the tree stump’s roots. “You know, I think he gets lonely when he's just one pig. You ever get lonely in your line of work?”

  He glances at me, but looks away when he meets my eyes.

  “Socks, I can't stay here all night. But we don't have to solve the problem today- we just have to make sure Basil is safe. The two of you could be great friends. She's a human with all the blissful innocence of a dog, you're a dog with the burdensome knowledge of mortality usually reserved for humans. The perfect pair. What do you think? Will you look out for her?”

  “No,” he says matter-of-factly. “Not my work.”

  “I think you can multitask, bud. You've been helping me out.”

  “Yes! Good work.”

  I squint at his meaty, self-satisfied face. “You were only following me because I've been tiptoeing around death all day?!”

  “Yes.”

  “Bro, were you even planning on fighting back if the doll attacked me?”

  “No.” There's no trace of ill will about him; he's simply explaining how things are. “Not supposed to intervene.”

  “Okay– not supposed to, or not allowed to? I'm saying, I can hook you up with some serious treats if you keep Basil safe for me.”

  He lets out a little whine in his herculean effort to be a good boy. “Work is treat.” Socks doesn't sound even a little convinced that this is true.

  “Is work a better treat than steak?” His eyes widen and his feet start to shift as I tempt him. “Better than bacon?” Yikes, I wonder if Greg would be offended by that offer.

  Socks closes his eyes, gathers his strength, and says, “Yes.”

  Maybe it would help to know who I'm competing with. “Who do you work for, anyway?”

  Before Socks can answer, he spots something behind me and stands at attention. I turn in time to see it flying toward him, but not in time to do anything about it. I can’t even register what I’m seeing. At first I think it's one of the crows, maybe a crow carrying a large stick, but then another unidentified object soars in from the left and smacks the first one straight out of the air.

  The doll lies not two feet from Socks in a crumpled heap. On its left, the pitchfork I ditched earlier has fallen from its tiny hand; on its right, the doll’s own severed head gazes lifelessly into the sky. The cast iron frying pan that felled her is broken, too. Following the flight path of the pan, I find Basil standing at the farmhouse kitchen window. She's pointing at the doll.

  In a tone of unshakeable authority, Basil yells, “NOT. MY. PUPPY.”

  I turn to Socks, both of us gawking, his tail beginning to wag. “Her,” he says.

  “What's that, buddy?”

  “I work for her now.”

  I smile at him as my heart melts. “Hey! Me, too. I guess that makes us coworkers.”

  Taking up the skillet handle in his mouth, Socks bounds toward Basil. I collect the rest of the pan first, then go for the doll’s body, but it and the head are long gone.

  Basil shouts, “Sorry if I scared you!”

  It's not fear I'm feeling. I've seen my share of skillet tosses at the county fair, but I have never in my life seen someone tomahawk a pan at a moving target from fifty feet away. “Are you kidding? That was amazing, boss!” I arrive at the window and pass the pan through to her.

  “Oh!” Basil takes it with a great deal more care than needed. Blushing, she says, “I don't know what came over me.”

  Socks gets up on his hind legs to stick his head through the window, drop the handle inside, and lick Basil's hand. She squeaks. “I know we just met, but I just love him so much.” She scratches his neck, his chin, his ears.

  “Boss,” he calls her contentedly.

  Basil asks, “Did that doll attack you, by the way?”

  I blink. “What?”

  “It just tried to hurt Socks.”

  Of course Basil can roll with this. Look at her animals. She probably thinks all dolls are possessed. “Uh, looks that way, yeah.”

  “Dr. Baines gave me instructions for situations like this…” She opens a drawer and digs out one of her pocket notebooks, this one with a surprisingly cute caricature of Baines. “Yes, I thought so, right here. He says ‘don’t be scared’. Great! Sounds like we’ve got nothing to worry about.”

  I think he probably meant something more like ‘don’t let your fear feed the demonic entity that draws strength from human suffering’, but the results are pretty much the same. “Can do, boss.”

  “It's lucky all the other animals are already in the barn.” Ducking down to pull an industrial sized tub of salt from under the sink, Basil tells me, “I'll lay down a salt barrier around the building just in case.”

  As Basil joins me outside, I admit, “I didn't know you knew about salt barriers.”

  She shakes her head modestly. “It's just good animal husbandry.” Basil sings as she departs, Socks trotting along at her side.