Homecoming

Today, D. Mann shares a heartfelt story about the slow, often winding road to healing and a touching, yet slightly mysterious, encounter on Halloween night.

Five weeks had passed before Gray could bring himself to resume his daily ritual of walking the trails of Miller’s Grove, so named for its proximity to the old Miller farm. Without the encouragement he had gotten from his wife to walk today, Gray might still be sitting at his writing desk staring at a blank screen, trying to will his fingers to start typing.

He finished pulling on his walking boots, then looked reflexively at the newel post at the base of the bannister, spotting Luna’s bright red collar hanging there in its usual place, a reminder that he would be walking alone today.

He inhaled sharply; his sinuses filled and his eyes began to burn. He paused for a moment to collect himself, then he grabbed a light jacket and called out to his wife, “Ok Grace, I’ll be back in a while,” before exiting the house, Grace’s reply trailing behind him as the storm door slammed shut.

Gray set out on the tenth-of-a-mile walk through the woods of his own property, which adjoined Miller’s farm. As he approached the clearing that led to the Grove he could see a light fog forming over one of the farm’s fields—an apt metaphor, he felt, for the fog in his own head, the inevitable residue of too much scotch the night before.

It was late-afternoon, and the weak sunlight was already fading. Gray knew he didn’t have time for his usual hour-long walk before darkness set in, and he wanted to get home in time to help Grace with the trick-or-treaters, the first of whom would probably be arriving a little before sunset. So he quickened his pace in order to cover more ground in the limited time he had.

Entering the grove, Gray trudged through a blanket of brown, dead leaves—brilliant shades of orange, red, and yellow just a couple of weeks ago, they now crinkled and crunched under the weight of his boots. The faint odor of a wood fire hung in the air.

As painful as it still was to think about Luna, Gray allowed himself to recall their times in these woods. Luna would have loved it out here today, Gray thought. He could see her large black frame twenty feet ahead, pausing occasionally to bury her snout in a pile of leaves, huffing, then looking back to make sure Gray was still there before forging ahead again.

These fond memories, still so fresh, quickly gave way to the ritual second guessing that had plagued him for the last five weeks. His mood darkened and he felt the burning behind his eyes again.

It was hard to accept the sudden loss of Luna, Gray’s constant and loyal companion of eleven years. Her absence alone left him feeling empty, but what was harder was the dreadful feeling of moving on to a life without her, which felt like forgetting.

The choice had been uncomplicated—the inoperable tumor was bleeding into her belly; the animal was in pain and the tumor could rupture catastrophically at any minute. This was all laid out in clinical efficiency. Gray and Grace were in a box. The decision tree pointed to one horrible choice—euthanasia as quickly as possible. Gray and Grace were grateful that their vet had agreed to make a house call on the following day to euthanize Luna.

The fact that this was the least evil among evil choices didn’t make it any easier, and when the vet made the final push of the plunger on the syringe, Gray felt the massive weight of the decision crashing down on him—the bond and trust that had been forged between Luna, Gray, and Grace and reinforced daily for eleven years was shattered in what felt to Gray like a final act of betrayal.

The life in Luna’s eyes faded and her tongue slipped out of her mouth. Gray and Grace both let out involuntary yelps, followed by sobbing, then soothing words whispered in the ears of their dear departed pet. For five weeks Gray had been replaying this scene and the terrible calculus that led to the inevitable result.

Lost in this maze of sorrow, grief, and self-pity, Gray hadn’t even noticed that he had turned around and was headed back home. It was then that he was jolted from his brooding by the rustling of leaves and the hurried scampering of feet over the forest floor about fifty feet away toward the interior of the woods.

This startled Gray and he could feel his pulse quicken. It was too dark now in the woods to make anything out visually, but Gray heard the quickening footsteps cross his path and then move toward the clearing. Suddenly the noises stopped. Silence.

Then, just as suddenly, a few moments later and fifty yards away in the clearing Gray made out several small, ghostlike figures streaking across the field in the fading light, then laughing and shrieking.

“Halloween!” Gray laughed out loud.

Gray emerged from the woods as darkness was falling. He made his way to the front door and spotted the candy bowl on the bench in the foyer as he entered.

Grace emerged from the kitchen and greeted Gray, “Hi hon.”

“I’m back.”

“Good walk?”

“Yeah. Nice. Quiet. Trick or treaters?”

“A half dozen or so.”

“Looks like I’ll have something for dessert!” Gray said, trying to sound cheerful.

By 7 o’clock the last of the trick-or-treaters had left, and Grace turned out the porch light and returned the candy bowl to the kitchen.

By now Gray was into his third scotch, but they were heavy pours and he fell into a deep sleep on the couch in less than an hour without having eaten.

He dreamt of his walk in the woods and the fog covering the field at Miller’s farm. A black dog wearing a red collar sat in the middle of the field, looking back at Gray.

The dog gave two barks, rose to its feet, then started to walk slowly away from Gray, giving one glance back at him before continuing. Gray pursued. Walking at first, then breaking into a full out run. But the faster he ran, the harder it was to see the dog through the fog.

He called out, “Luna! Luna!” Then burst into tears as the fog lifted and there was no sign of the dog in any direction.

It was nearly midnight when he was startled awake by the sound of scratching on the storm door. Two scratches, pause, then two more. Then silence.

Gray sat up suddenly, apprehensive, trying to separate dream from reality. He was sure that the scratches at the door were not part of his dream. But who would be at the door now?

“Trick-or-treaters?” he muttered, still trying to shake the cobwebs from his head. He looked at his watch—11:50 pm. Sometimes the older kids came around late on Halloween, but never this late.

He turned on the hall light and made his way cautiously to the door. He stopped when his eyes came to the newel post and he didn’t see Luna’s collar. He knew he’d seen it early in the evening. Goose bumps rose from the skin on his arms.

He flipped on the porch light and looked out, half expecting to see the McGarry twins from next door—fun loving practical jokers, Gray thought they might be pulling a trick. He scanned the front yard, looking for unfurled toilet paper or broken eggs spattered on his car in the driveway. Nothing. The neighboring houses were quiet and dark, no sign of anything or anyone.

Gray was shivering slightly. He slipped on his boots, opened the door, and stepped out onto the porch.

Looking to his left he was startled to see Luna’s collar on the porch, sitting on top of a piece a paper that had been folded in half.

His heart quickened and he felt a rush of adrenaline. He looked around again and saw nothing, heard nothing.

Gray bent down and picked up the collar and the piece of paper. He unfolded the paper and read the note, written in what looked like a child’s scribble.

“Hi. I found this collar with your address on the tag in Miller’s Grove earlier tonight and thought you might want it back. I hope you didn’t lose your dog. Happy Halloween.”

Fighting back tears, Gray remained on the porch for several minutes.

He went back inside, turned out the porch light, then replaced Luna’s collar on the newel post before smiling and ascending the stairs.

Author’s Note

D. Mann occasionally writes stories and loves discussing mathematics and philosophy. His stories are genuine and grounded in real-life experiences, as he shows in his story, Barbecue. He also has a knack for capturing the little, heartfelt moments that make our connections with pets so special. He currently does not have a Substack, but from time to time talks about starting one that deals with current events.

Upcoming…

• A story by

  Bill Ferguson 🇨🇦
  :

  A Dark and Dreary Night, 11 October 2025

Thanks very much for reading, subscribing, and sharing the stories, poetry, and essays in this space. If you like a story, poem, or essay, please click on the heart. Also if you are so moved, please leave a comment.