Unholy Trinity: Skin & Fur by Jack Reigns

Our church worships at the altar of the Unholy Trinity. Its gospels are delivered as a trio of dark drabbles, linked so that Three become One. All hail the power of the Three.

I.

Dan walked the row of kennels, reviewing each dog up for adoption. Most of the pens were filled with either a snarling chihuahua or a smiling pit-bull. Evie said she’d kill him if he brought home a pit-bull. An idiotic looking lab mix was licking the concrete wall. The last kennel held a dog like he’d never seen before. A mix of black, red, and brown, the eyes were bright yellow and staring up at him, inquisitively. “Hello” Dan said, picking up the info sheet. The dog smiled, as if greeting him. He smiled back. “Says here you’re a kelpie.”

II.

Evie picked up another stuffed animal and threw it into the toybox. Since her husband had brought home that fucking dog, she had to be extra vigilant about not leaving things out. She hadn’t agreed, but he brought it home, the kids squealed, and that was it. She didn’t hate all dogs, there was just something so off about this one. It made her skin crawl, the way it stared, like it understood everything. She rounded the corner into the kitchen. The dog was standing on its hind legs, rummaging in a cupboard. She gasped and it turned to her.

III.

“MOMMY!” The screaming made both Dan and Evie sit straight up from a sound sleep. In a microsecond they were bounding out of the bedroom in search of the source. Their youngest stood in the entryway to the kitchen, screaming and pointing. Dan flicked on the overhead light. Blood painted the walls and floor, dripping off every surface. The stench was overwhelming. At the far end of the room sat the dog, yellow eyes glinting, perfectly clean. Its lips curled back, somewhere between a snarl and a smile. It got up, then continued to lift its body until standing upright.