The Puppy in the Moonlight

Written by Leila Nabih

In a crumbling house on the outskirts of town lived Mo, a twelve year old lonely vampire boy.  Hidden from the world, he spent his days sleeping and his nights reading old books by the flicker of a candle, his only company being the quiet, moonlit sky.  

His home, long abandoned by others, stood neglected and overgrown. It was well away, on top of a small hill overlooking a small town, hidden behind old and bushy trees. Although his immortality shielded him from time’s touch, it also kept him isolated from the living. Mo wondered if anything would ever change, completely unaware that an unexpected visitor was about to stir his quiet world forever.

On a particularly quiet and moonlit night, Mo sat at his windowsill, his book illuminated by the soft glow of a single candle. The room was filled with shadows, and the faint amber light flickered over the pages. Outside, the world bathed in a silvery glow from the full moon hanging high in the sky, casting gentle shadows across the sleeping town. Everything was still and peaceful, and Mo was content to lose himself in the words on the page, the only sound being the gentle rustle of paper as he turned each leaf.

Suddenly, something caught his eye. He lowered his book slightly and peered out the window, spotting a small figure on his front porch. At first, it was difficult to make out in the dim light, but Mo soon realised that it was a ghostly puppy, its’ form shimmering faintly in the moonlight. It let out a soft yap, looking up at him with pleading eyes. 

Mo’s heart skipped a beat. A ghost, he thought. And not just any ghost—this was the ghost of a puppy!

The little dog stood on the porch, its tail wagging slowly. Mo was surprised but not afraid. The puppy looked harmless, even friendly. There was something almost comforting about the little creature, and he felt a strange connection to it, as if it had come to him for a reason. From where he sat, Mo could just make out a collar around its neck, and dangling from it was a small tag. Without thinking, he leaned closer to the window, pressing his hands against the cool glass.

"Poppy," he whispered, reading the name engraved on the tag.

The puppy yapped again, its soft bark echoing in the quiet night. It was as though the little ghost was asking him to come outside. Mo hesitated for a moment but soon grabbed his candle, shielding its flame with his hand as he made his way down the creaky wooden stairs. His heart pounded in his chest, curiosity pulling him forward.

The night air was cool against his skin as he stepped outside, his bare feet brushing against the stone porch. There, waiting patiently, was the ghostly puppy. It barked once more before trotting away, pausing briefly to look back at him, as if urging him to follow. Mo, intrigued, hurried after it, the candlelight flickering in the night air as he walked. Shadows danced around him, cast by the faint glow of the moon and his flame.

The puppy led him through the quiet streets of the town, away from the houses and toward the edge of the town where the old cemetery lay hidden among the trees. A thick mist was beginning to settle over the ground, swirling around Mo's ankles as he walked. The cemetery loomed ahead, its tall iron fence barely visible through the fog. The sight of it made him uneasy, but the puppy seemed determined, its pace quickening as it neared the gate.

When they reached the cemetery, Mo hesitated. The gate was already open, creaking as it swayed in the faint breeze. Inside, the mist curled and twisted around the headstones like ghostly fingers. It was eerie, but the puppy's soft yapping urged him to continue. Gathering his courage, Mo stepped through the gate, the mist thickening as he moved deeper into the cemetery.

Inside, the air felt heavier, colder. The leaves on the trees were dull and brittle, their edges brown with blight. The ground around the headstones was patchy, overgrown in some places, as if the cemetery had been forgotten by time. As Mo followed the puppy through the tombstones, he noticed familiar names etched into the stone markers. These were people he had once known—neighbours, friends, and even distant relatives. Their graves lay still and silent, covered in the decay of years long gone.

The puppy led him further into the cemetery, past crumbling crypts and decaying tombs. Every so often, it would glance back at him, its ghostly form glowing faintly in the fog. Despite the eerie atmosphere, Mo felt compelled to follow, trusting the little spirit dog as it guided him toward the faint light that flickered ahead.

As they approached the source of the light, Mo's unease grew. The trees around them became twisted and gnarled, their branches bare and lifeless. The mist was thicker here, and it clung to the ground in heavy swirls, making it difficult to see more than a few feet ahead. But the puppy pressed on, leading him to a small clearing where a candle flickered weakly on the ground.

Mo blew out his own candle and pocketed it.

In the clearing, there was a small, freshly dug hole. Next to it was a tiny shovel, the kind a child might use to dig in the dirt, and a simple white box with an inscription written on its’ top. Near the box lay a small chicken bone, and propped up against a stone was a makeshift headstone with the words: *Here lies Poppy, Eddie and Julie's little puppy*.

A young girl, no more than five or six, was curled up and asleep beside the hole. She was shivering, her small body trembling in the cold night air. Her face was streaked with dirt and dried tears, and her hair was tangled, with leaves and thorns caught in the messy strands. Her nightgown was torn and filthy, her hands covered in mud from her attempt to dig the grave.

Mo’s heart ached for the child. The girl must have come out here to bury her beloved puppy, only to fall asleep from fright and exhaustion. Poppy, the ghostly puppy, stood beside her, watching the scene unfold with sad, patient eyes.

Without a word, Mo knelt down beside the girl, careful not to wake her. The puppy, now sitting quietly by the grave, wagged its tail slowly as if acknowledging Mo's silent gesture of help. Mo picked up the small shovel and began to dig, deepening the hole that the little girl had started. The earth was cold and hard, but he worked quickly, his hands steady and sure. Once the hole was deep enough, Mo gently placed the box inside, then carefully set the makeshift headstone in place. 

As he finished, the little girl stirred in her sleep. Not wanting to frighten her, Mo slipped behind a tree, watching from the shadows as the girl slowly woke up.

The child blinked in confusion, his eyes taking in the small grave before her. For a moment, she seemed unsure of where she was, but then her gaze fell on the headstone, and a fresh wave of tears welled up in her eyes. She knelt by the grave, her tiny hands trembling as she began to cover the box with dirt. Her movements were slow, almost reverent, as she said her final goodbye to her puppy.

Mo watched in silence, his heart heavy with sympathy for the child. When the girl was finished, she placed the little chicken bone on top of the grave and wiped her tear-streaked face with the back of her hand. She picked up her candle and, with one last glance at the grave, walked slowly toward the gate at the edge of the cemetery.

Mo waited until the girl had disappeared from sight before stepping out from behind the tree. He knelt beside the small grave, his fingers brushing against the cold earth. Poppy, the ghostly puppy, was lying atop the mound of dirt, his translucent form curled up as if resting in peace. Mo reached out and, though his hand passed through the puppy's form, he felt a sense of warmth, as though the little ghost was still very much alive in spirit.

A tear slid down Mo's cheek, not from sadness but from the deep connection he felt to this moment. He had spent so long in isolation, disconnected from the world, but tonight, he had been part of something meaningful. This small act of kindness, of helping a little girl say goodbye to her beloved pet, had filled him with a sense of purpose he hadn’t felt in centuries.

The puppy stood up and trotted over to Mo, wagging its tail in gratitude. Without a sound, it began to follow him as he made his way back toward the gate. Mo smiled softly, feeling a newfound sense of companionship in the puppy’s presence.

The puppy was still by his side as they reached the house. Mo entered his home, the warmth of the candlelight casting a gentle glow over the room. He returned to his windowsill, setting a freshly lit candle down and picking up his book. But this time, as he sat and read, the puppy curled up at his feet, its ghostly form glowing softly in the night.

The nights that followed were filled with peace. Poppy, the ghostly puppy, remained by Mo’s side, a loyal companion in his endless existence. They shared quiet moments by the window, the candlelight flickering softly as Mo read his books, no longer alone.

As the years passed, something remarkable began to happen. From the small grave in the cemetery where Poppy had been buried, a tree started to grow. At first, it was just a fragile sapling, its branches thin and delicate. But as time went on, the tree grew stronger, its roots digging deep into the earth. Its branches stretched wide, and its leaves unfurled in a brilliant display of green. The tree became a symbol of life, of growth, and of the unbreakable bond between Mo and his ghostly friend. 

And beneath its branches, Mo and his loyal puppy continued to watch over the town, a silent reminder that even in the darkest of nights, there could still be love and light.

-The End-