Random Horror Stories - 500

The night was cold. The boy's thoughts were gone now, scrambled, tangled. He could no longer remember his name, his face, who he was before the world twisted him into this. He had been turned into a dog. Or maybe the dog had been him first. Either way, it didn't matter now.

The cold air burned his nostrils, but there was nothing else—just the echo of his paws against the cracked asphalt, the sharp scrape of metal against stone. Somewhere behind him, the men followed. He could hear their boots, their laughter, their jeering. They weren't far.

The boy-dog's body didn't belong to him anymore. It was too strong, too fast. His legs moved before he could think, his senses flooded with smells he couldn't name. He didn't want them. He didn't want to chase the rats in the gutters, or chew on whatever scraps the other dogs left. He wanted to scream, to claw his way out of this fur and flesh. But he couldn't. His voice was trapped behind furred teeth.

They were coming for him. The dogs who didn't care. They would do what they always did, take what was left of him and sell it. The slaughterhouse. He remembered that word from somewhere.

His paws hammered against the ground. He could smell the men's scent. They were closing in, their laughter louder now, like it came from inside his skull. Their words meant nothing. They only wanted him for the pit.

Only for the cage. He was nothing more than meat, something to be dragged out, bled dry, and thrown into a pile like every other worthless creature.

A scream built in his throat, but it only came out as a desperate bark. His eyes flickered to the dark alley ahead. He didn't know where to run, didn't know where the road would lead. There was nowhere left to go.

A blow to the side sent him tumbling. The metal bar was cold in his mouth, too thick to bite through. He could taste blood, but it wasn't his. It wasn't his anymore. The skin on his neck burned, searing with the pressure of the chain that cut through the air.

They were close. The men weren't far. The leash jerked again, pulling him back toward the others. They would drag him to the cages, chain him with the others who didn't matter. They would kill him just like they had killed the rest. The sound of their boots, their gruff voices, all mixed together. The stench of death.

He couldn't remember how long he had been running, but it felt like years. His mind, the part that used to be his, fractured more with each breath, with each scent. It didn't matter.

He didn't see the man until he was right there. Big and strong, hand outstretched, ready to drag him down. There was nothing left to do but bark, to snap his teeth, but it was too late. The grip tightened on his neck. He couldn't feel his legs anymore. His breath, quick and shallow, filled the narrow alley. The stench of steel, of blood, seeped into his nose, into his soul.

The man yanked hard, the boy-dog's head snapped back, and then it was dark.

The last thing he felt was the cold hand gripping tighter. The last sound was the laughter that shook the ground, closing in.