Why would you do that, Mikkers?
Their mother is half Cherokee, and their grandmother comes from a long line of Cherokee medicine people. Growing up, they spent a lot of time with her, learning the old ways, and by 23 they were a healer in their own right. Their dad is the opposite: an atheist and a lifelong skeptic who tries to be logical about everything.
About two years before posting, they moved with their dad and brother to a house out in the country. A few months in, they adopted a five-month-old German shepherd and pit bull mix, sweet with the cats and protective of his new owner. Like any young dog, he still needed to go out every few hours at night.
Around 2:45 one morning he woke them up again, so out they went into the back yard. The moon was huge, almost full. While the puppy sniffed around, his owner looked up at the sky and gradually realized there were no night sounds at all. A shiver ran down their spine. Then the dog growled low and pressed himself against their legs, tail tucked and hackles up, and wouldn't budge.
At the edge of the yard was what looked like a coyote. They'd heard coyotes most nights since moving in. But this one looked wrong and felt wrong, and it was staring straight at them. In the moonlight they could see it clearly: thin fur, bald in places, and eyes that weren't reflective like a dog's in the dark, but yellow like the sun, almost blinding. Its back legs were longer than any canine's should be, and from the hips down they looked built for walking upright.
They scooped up the sixty-pound dog without taking their eyes off it and silently said a Cherokee prayer their grandmother had taught them. The thing backed up a little, like it was physically upset. Then it spoke, in a perfect copy of their grandma's voice: 'Why would you do that, Mikkers?' Nobody but their grandparents ever called them that.
They ran inside with the dog and locked the door. Their brother came into the kitchen, annoyed at the noise. They hushed him and switched off the lights, and the two of them crept into the living room. In the moonlight, the outline of something tall and human-shaped showed through the stained glass in the door. The knob started to turn. The brother grabbed it and locked it just in time. Then it spoke to him, in their grandpa's voice: 'Bubba, why don't you let grandpa in?' Their grandparents were hundreds of miles away, on the reservation in Cherokee, North Carolina. The brother went white.
The next night, at the same time, the tapping on the glass came back. The two of them sat in the living room praying, and the more they prayed, the harder it pounded. That woke their dad, who still thought it was one of the brother's friends messing around. He stormed over and threw the door open. Instead of coming at him, the thing dropped to all fours and fled down the road. Their dad stumbled back, pale, locked the door, and went to bed without a word.
The next day, following their grandmother's instructions, they sprinkled juniper ash around the house. It never came back. But the dog was never the same. He turned unpredictable and aggressive toward anyone who wasn't a woman, and after he bit their brother, they had to rehome him with a couple of women, where he's much happier. Even now, they say, he won't go outside at night.