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those three words to me. I theorized that the demon had ddeiced to inhabit the dog’s body for a change, perhaps craving the ripe purity of a new victim after wasting my son’s soul.We had just gotten back from my wife’s funeral, the house barren, even calm, like the moments before a storm’s arrival. I told Jake to bring the dog outside and play in the sandbox for a while, not caring that he was still dressed in the tiny suit Olivia had bought for him to wear on Easter Sunday. I trudged up the stairs to our bedroom, sat on the bed. Olivia’s pearl necklace lay draped over her jewelry box, looking deceivingly like a smile full of brilliant white teeth. I thought of her wearing it, encircling her neck. And if I peered hard enough into that memory I could just make out those pearls dancing up and down in rhythm with her heartbeat as the blood pumped through her carotid arteries, delivering its life-sustaining payload of oxygen to its final destination, the brain. I sat there thinking of her, when she was alive. But mostly I cried.After some passage of time I heard the screen door slam. I twitched and rose off the bed, pulled almost magnetically to the foot of the stairs. I was confused because somehow Jake looked different, maybe older. And then I heard the words. He couldn’t have pushed her, though; he was playing in his room when she fell down the stairs. The dog’s growl escalated as his agitation increased. Something was going to happen, but I was powerless. I watched, from afar it seemed. The dog lunged at Jake, snapping his head back and forth, drawing rivers of blood from the boy’s neck. I screamed but the scene faded out of reach forever.When they found me, it was all questions, all the time. I told them what happened, but no one believed me. Yes, the dog spoke and yes he killed Jake. Yes, he told me that Jake pushed Olivia. Yes to all of it. And now they’re telling me I don’t even have a dog. Or a son. God, they’re so confused. And they keep calling me Jake.

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