Derry is such a safe town
The friendliest place in the state!
You know all your neighbors, everyone looks out for each other
These kinds of things are said about every small town. My town, Derry, was no exception. I moved here a few years ago not because I was concerned about safety, but because I needed a break from the city. I mean, yeah, the suburbs are safer and all, but really I just wanted that picket fence, dog in the yard, American dream bullshit. And for the most part, I got it. I found the house, I picked the cutest mutt from the shelter (naming him Buddy, because of course), and I settled cozily into the cushy couch that is suburbia. Hell, I even got my dog’s paw print and “gotcha day” tattooed on my wrist - I was that far into suburban white womanhood.
My garden was hands down my favorite aspect of the home I bought. The stalks of green beans and tufts of lettuce I planted were in such contrast with the scraggly basil plant I kept on my coffee table at my old apartment. Buddy liked it too, often accompanying me on the short walk from the back door to the garden, then snoozing lazily in the dirt beside me or sniffing the trail of some long-gone rabbit.
A couple times, Buddy stumbled upon fox caches. The first time I found one, I nearly fainted. I hadn’t known it, but I guess foxes store parts of kills they can’t carry in little hidey-holes known as caches. They come back later, usually the next day, to pick up what they had left behind and carry it home. It would be a pretty efficient system if it weren’t for their usual incompetence when burying their leftovers. Often, you can identify a fox cache by how shittily their cache is re-covered; chicken legs poke out of the ground, you’ll see a white tail peeking through a thin layer of dirt, you get the idea. Essentially, foxes would make terrible grave diggers.
Whenever Buddy found the couple caches he did, I’d hear him rooting furiously through the dirt - hell, one time I even got pelted by mud as he tore through the layer of earth separating him from the neighbor’s missing rooster. One time he even got into a cache at night - chasing him down in the moonlight was great, and the fun was amplified by the feathers that flew around the yard as we engaged in a one-sided game of chase.
I started taking him out on a leash at night after that - I really couldn’t afford to have him take off again, especially once we started getting reports of break-ins and even a mugging in our neighborhood.
The brigade of moms on my street was hell bent on informing everyone that there was a potential predator, murderer, or psychopath in our midst. At first I rolled my eyes, but the police reports did file in, although not quite at the rapid pace the neighborhood watch would have you believe. In the day it was easy to ignore, but your imagination runs wild at night, especially when you’re surrounded by trees in the dead of night, pleading with your dog to just pee for fucks sake.
The other night, where my story really begins, I had forgotten to leash Buddy. I know, I know. Save the lecture. I was just exhausted and honestly could barely get my ass off the couch, nevermind walk around with a dog who refuses to go potty until he’s done several laps around the yard. Cue karmic justice, and Buddy takes off into the garden. Honestly, I stood for another couple minutes, figuring he’d come back after sniffing some rabbit droppings or whatever.
Instead, he started digging furiously. I groaned, shuffling towards him - we hadn’t had a cache in a while, and of course there was one tonight of all nights. I grabbed him by the collar, trying to pull Buddy back towards the house where I could snap a leash on him and try again.
When I approached, he growled at me, hair on end and teeth bared. This was unlike him - really, really unlike him.
“Buddy!” I yelled “Let’s GO! I don’t have time for this!”
He continued to stare at me, ears flat and snarling.
“What the fuck Buddy?!” My voice quivered a bit, not sure if this was even my dog anymore. His gaze didn’t move from me, tracing my every move. “You know what - FINE - stay out here! Dig up that fox’s dinner and see how it feels when he finds you in the morning!”
I don’t know why I said that. It wasn’t like me. But really, I didn’t know what else to do. I started towards the house, hoping he wouldn’t try to attack from behind. As I placed my hand on the doorknob, I could hear trotting behind me. Frantically, I tried to open the door, pushing it with all my weight before tumbling into my back mudroom. I tried to catch my breath, bracing myself for this demon version of Buddy to snap at me - but instead, my normal, boring dog walked into the house. His tail wagged at me playfully, and he snuggled up to my chest as I lay on the floor, dumbfounded.
The next morning, I took Buddy out, but this time on a leash, of course. He had devoured his breakfast - the norm for him - and begged to go out not five minutes afterward. I decided to take him over towards the garden, to see if I could find the cache that had fascinated him so.
Sure enough, there was a turned up pile of fresh dirt, prints scattered around it where Buddy had been digging last night. I peered at it, while Buddy stood behind me, whimpering. What is wrong with this dog? I muttered.
That’s when I saw it.
A hand.
A human fucking hand.
I screamed, scaring Buddy so badly he bolted back towards the house, ripping his leash from my hands and ripping me off my feet. I crawled towards the upturned earth, hoping I had imagined it. But if I had, I wouldn’t be here telling you this story.
As I got closer, my suspicions were only further confirmed - my dog had been digging up a hand, a whole ass HAND. I tried to talk myself down
Come on, you’re acting crazy. It’s probably just some prop that stupid kid from down the street buried to scare you
That was it! It had to be fake - I’d seen people find mannequin heads or plastic halloween-decor-fake-bones buried, only to laugh at themselves after they took a closer look. That had to be what was happening here.
I began pulling away more dirt, and became less and less sure this was fake. I mean, the hand felt so real. The skin was soft, there were detailed fingerprints and marks on the palm. It was either a really good prop - we’re talking Hollywood level - or it was a human.
No way.
I dug some more - I convinced myself not to call the cops until I was 100% without a doubt sure this was someone’s actual remains. I didn’t want to look like a fool - the whole neighborhood would’ve been talking about it within hours.
I thought it couldn’t get worse. Then I got to the wrist and saw it.
A small black tattoo, reminiscent of the prints scattered in the dirt around me. A date I knew all too well. I know you’ll say “that’s impossible, there’s no way you dug up YOUR OWN dead body!”
But dear reader, that is the honest to god truth.
I frantically searched for my phone before realizing I left it inside. I don’t know what I was going to do with it, but I didn’t know what else to do. I ran back to the door, where Buddy was scratching furiously to get in. I raced to the table, grabbing my phone as I pressed the keys to unlock it.
18 missed calls
3 voicemails
57 messages
All of them along the lines of:
“Where are you Tiff?????”
“We’re worried sick!”
“Please just let me know you’re okay!!!!”
Opening my contacts, I pressed my mother’s name. I needed to talk to her, to tell her I was okay - but, was I okay? I really don’t know. Either way, I needed to make the call.
Call Failed
I tried again
Call Failed
Okay, maybe a text then
Message Delivery Error
Nothing was going through. Instagram DMs, Facebook Messenger, I even sent a good old fashioned email to my mom’s work address. Nothing. Would. Send.
That’s really where I am I guess. I think I’m dead - at least, logic would say I am. But, the fact that I’m here typing this quite frankly defies logic. I’m sending out one hell of a hail mary pass here, hoping you’ll read this, that someone out there can help me. All I want is to tell my family I’m okay. To tell my mom not to worry. I can’t bear being here, while everyone I love is out there wondering and waiting. That is, until someone comes to my house and discovers my body. Oh god, what would happen then? Would I stay here? Would I go… wherever it is we go when we die? Reader, I’m desperate. I’ll do anything. Just please, let me know you can see this…