To the audience it may have seemed like Arthur Dodd was watching angels—at least that’s how his mother used to describe Arthur’s long preoccupations staring at things no one else could see. But that was sixty years ago, when he was a child and such imaginative explanations were necessary. Now he was simply old, and that was explanation enough.

He heard the woman next to him cough lightly and rustle her sheet music in an effort to draw his attention away from whatever it was above the stage that had caught his eye, but Arthur ignored her, just as he had done for the last 20 years. The moth circling the stage lights like a tiny planet was infinitely more fascinating. It looped and twirled in a tight dance, and Arthur could almost hear the strings swell and brass demark as the music only he could hear described each sweep of motion or turn.

As Arthur watched, the moth made an excessively sharp turn and hit one of the lights far above the stage and fizzled, spiraling down in a cramped circle that brought the creature very nearly onto Arthur’s head. He dodged just a hair’s breadth and it instead bounced off his shoe and came to rest in the shadow of his music stand.

Around him the other strings tuned and whined in random syncopation. Arthur Dodd lowered his bow to the floor and prodded the hapless insect, now either thoroughly stunned or dead. His brow furrowed in concentration as he poked the moth. Its wings were spread but unmoving, the hair-like legs twitching almost in time with Arthur’s jabs. He grimaced slightly and poked a bit harder—surely the poor thing had not so easily expired?

“Arthur,” hissed the woman next to him—Regilia Smith, first violin (as she always introduced herself, no doubt even in the company of strangers at a grocery store). “What are you doing? They can see you.”

Arthur had never concerned himself with the auditorium beyond the stage—it was the only way he could keep from quivering with nerves. He didn’t look now, either, nor did he glance at Regilia Smith. He prodded his moth once more, then slowly sat up as the house lights dimmed.

“Sit up straight,” Regilia admonished with a toothy smile, knowing full well that Arthur had not physically been able to sit straight for at least 10 years. He took a deep breath and didn’t even try to humor her. After 35 years with the orchestra, even trying to sit up seemed as pointless as everything else. What was one more concerto or symphony when he had left a trail of bent-backed performances behind him—a long career that had seen more than one Regilia Smith in the seat to his right but had left him always the proverbial second fiddle?

When the conductor made his entrance Arthur was looking at the lights above the stage again. He didn’t even see the maestro greet Regilia then bow to the crowd, and when that first serene note of the first measure shimmered from his violin his eyes were fixed on the immobile form of the moth at his feet.

***

“You seem poorly, Arthur,” a lanky man said to him backstage after the concert. He held a small case for his tympani mallets like a jewel thief escorting his prize to a fence.

“I’m all right,” Arthur replied, smiling, but the sparkle of his eyes was dimmed and his skin seemed to be clinging to his face in a last effort at life. “Just a little tired. Worried about my dog—she’s old, you know. And then there’s Regilia—”

“Ah! Understood,” the tympanist replied with a bob at the waist and a smile. He leaned in secretively and added, “She is, of course, blaming you for the lack of emotion in tonight’s performance. No one believes her,” he added hastily. “I mean, it’s not your job to keep emotions high.”

Arthur chuckled lightly and patted the man on the shoulder. “Actually, I think that’s why I’m so tired.”

“How’s that?” The tympanist’s eyebrows quivered with curiosity, as if the muscles were too weak to fully raise them.

“I used to care,” Arthur shrugged distantly.

“Hey, you’ve done this long enough to know we all have off nights.”

Arthur tried to smile gratefully but it looked more like a wince. He sighed and dropped the ruse, patting his friend’s shoulder again. “It’s Christmas Eve—I just want to get home to my dog.”

Arthur winked then tapped his violin case and turned to the exit.

***

“Helix?” Arthur knocked the snow from his shoes then stepped inside and shut out the cold. “Helix, old girl,” he called a bit more loudly. “Did you miss me?”

There was a slow click on the linoleum in the kitchen, then a graying black mutt tottered into view, her tail low but wagging happily. She nudged Arthur’s hand with her nose and offered his fingertips a slow, methodic lick, then sat down and yawned widely, almost expectantly. Arthur coughed into his fist—a low rumble in his lungs that strained his throat.

“We’re a pair, aren’t we, girl?” he mumbled, sliding off his shoes. He put his violin down and shrugged off his heavy winter coat. “Too old to be walking in the snow, eh? How about some hot cocoa?” Helix’s eyes glistened happily at Arthur as she diligently followed him into the kitchen. Outside, the wind rattled the panes and made the small home creak and groan, its timbers full of weather-worn duty. Arthur poured some water into the kettle and lit the ring beneath it, then turned from the stove and shuffled over to the thermostat—it always seemed cold to him these days, no matter what the temperature was set at.

“Well anyway,” he mumbled, rattling out another cough as he saw that the temperature was a balmy 72. “At least we’re home, eh?” He turned and saw Helix curled in her favorite corner of the couch. She caught his eyes and flicked the end of her tail once, then smacked her lips, shut her eyes, and went back to sleep. To her left, in the window, Arthur’s small Christmas tree glistened with fairy lights, it’s diffuse glow masking the gray in Helix’s coat. For a moment she looked young again; barely a year old, and Arthur grinned widely as he recalled the day he’d brought her home. She’d been sick then—full of worms and infections—but she’d still managed to hop to her feet and excitedly jump up Arthur’s leg whenever he came near her.

The kettle began to whistle, breaking Arthur’s reverie. He shuffled back into the kitchen and poured the water over some cocoa mix, then turned off the light and used the glow of his Christmas tree to find his way to Helix’s side.

“Ah, we’ve had a good run of it, though, haven’t we, girl?”

He lowered himself onto the couch with a groan and watched the snow drifting down outside, sparkling silently in the white rays of the streetlamp.

“We had a good go…”

Arthur reached out his hand and touched Helix, tickling the side of her tummy. She didn’t flinch or try to lick his fingers or even open her eyes. Arthur put down his cocoa on the endtable beside him and gently shook her.

“Helix?” he breathed, his eyes hot with tears, but still she lay motionless. “Ah, God bless you, girl,” he said around a large sniffle. “Thanks for waiting for me to get home.”

A tear finally welled with enough weight and slid down his cheek, followed in quick succession by two more; great drops that glistened like icicles. Arthur Dodd had wanted nothing more than to sit with Helix on Christmas morning and watch the children outside play with their new toys.

“Wait for me, girl,” he stammered, trying to hold back the tears. The effort only made him cough, the pain in his chest and throat tightening in response. He slumped back on the couch, put his head back, and closed his eyes, his fingers still twitching on Helix’s side.

***

When he awoke from the dream he called to his dog, but there was no animal close at hand to answer his summons.

That Helix wasn’t curled up on the couch beside him was no great surprise—she often slunk around at night, snuffling off after some morsel of food or in search of a modicum of trouble to keep herself occupied.

But the dream had beckoned Arthur Dodd to take her on a walk, back behind the sheds and garages of his neighbors, to the alleyway of grass cut through the trees at the end of his subdivision; trees that, in an era of encroaching suburbia, still wandered off into the hills and back country of the pioneers, sparsely sprinkled with the odd farmhouse or vineyard or ancient homestead gone to ruins, devoid of the life and gaiety brought by human occupants an age ago.

The dream had beckoned and Arthur Dodd had woken up, his neck stiff from sleeping on the couch, his hot cocoa stone cold and forgotten. As he came to his wakeful senses and mumbled his summons, Arthur realized Helix should still have been on the couch beside him, curled in the exact position she had been in when she’d entered her final sleep.

“Helix?” he called again, excitement rimming his voice as he sat up. He coughed hoarsely once and up, despite the rattle in his bones. He could hear the teeth of winter ripping at the walls and shaking the windows, and didn’t relish the thought of chasing his dog through the woods at the behest of some half-remembered dream that even now was fading just as the pale light of the full moon would soon be chased from the sky by the dim promise of a Christmas morning sun.

Arthur padded into the kitchen, fully expecting to see his dog dramatically sniffing her empty food bowl, but she was not to be found in the kitchen, nor on his bed where she normally curled up on the pillows and fell asleep.

“Helix?” he tried once more, now afraid that his companion had come back to life long enough to slink off somewhere private, and he’d missed his chance to see her once more. Arthur checked the den to no avail; nor did the guest room hold any answers.

Then he heard a small thud, as of a paw bending the aluminum of his screen door in just the way Helix had done to let him know she was ready to come back inside. That his dog—smart though she was—had not only opened and closed his back door, but also had first unlocked it, seemed highly unlikely, yet Arthur Dodd found himself standing in the back entryway in a crumpled tuxedo, mouth agape, considering just that likelihood. The wind pounded a few waves against the walls, but as he stood perfectly still and concentrated he heard it again: The precise and careful thud of Helix’s paw against the back door, followed this time by a short, discreet yap that demanded entrance.

Arthur moved to the door as quickly as he could, only dimly aware that he had to unfasten the locks before opening it. Helix barked once more with joy and backed up a step as Arthur opened the door and let her in. A single, fat tear glistened in the moonlight on his face as she crossed the threshold, and Arthur realized three details simultaneously: He knew Helix had been curled up on the couch next to him in the light of the Christmas tree; her black coat now shone with white highlights because of its sheen, not age; and Helix dragged her leash into the house, it being fastened to her collar, waiting only for Arthur to grasp the other end and follow the advice of his dream.

“Helix? What on Earth happened? How did you get outside?”

Helix jumped up and licked his hand, her paws resting on his left thigh, her back legs stretched with youth and musculature. She pushed off and sat down before him, emitting a low, excited whine of anticipation, her eyes sparkling with life and intelligence. Arthur Dodd bent down slowly and scratched her ears, realizing as he did so that her fur was warm to the touch—she must have been outside for only a few seconds, perhaps no longer than it taken him to awake, rise, poke his head in each room, then discover his pet on the other side of a tightly locked door.

Arthur sighed and stood back up (ignoring the twinge in his back), smiling and trying not to think too much about the situation. If he could keep whatever magic this was in force for a few more hours, he may yet have his wish of sitting in the front window with her and watching the children play.

“Well, Helix Dodd,” he said; her ears perked up and she cocked her head and wagged her tail slowly. “I suppose I had better get ready and take you on that walk.”

***

The simple fact is that Arthur Bates Dodd was not a man to often ignore the promise or arcane knowledge of his dreams, least of all when some force had managed to revive his dog and place her on the outside of a locked door, leash in tow and ready for a stroll. Added to that fact was the night on which it had all transpired. Had it been just another wintry night, Arthur may well have removed the leash and crawled back into bed, dream or not, but this was Christmas morning, the starlight still shining before the sun had peeked down over the crystalline Earth, and if his mother had taught him anything it was that the only real magic left in the world was in the nethertime between sundown on Christmas Eve and sunrise on Christmas morning.

Even more than this was the full moon and Christmas snow—it was surely a time when walks through the woods could illicit all manner of miracles. To be sure, Arthur had witnessed one such event already, so he hastened into his coat and furry snow boots so as not to miss even the dimmest glimmer of magic still held resonant in the pre-dawn air.

“All right, old girl,” Arthur asked as he opened the door and followed his dog into the thin winter of a timeless night. “Where to?”

Only once they had reached the avenue cut through the woods by the city planners—soon to be a road, no doubt—did Helix stop pulling and allow Arthur to catch his breath. Past his neighbors’ snow-covered humps of wood-piles and dilapidated rough-hewn sheds Helix had tugged him, along the easement between two quiet streets, the backs of the comfortable homes silent in the snowy darkness. Sometimes they heard a dog bark or scavenging animals scurrying from their path, but Helix had not been dissuaded and Arthur was not about to admonish her for tugging too hard, despite the icy tightness in his lungs.

When they finally left the neighborhood and entered the avenue cut through the small wood, the animal cast a furtive glance back at Arthur, as if apologizing for her behavior. Helix still plodded onward, but whatever force had drawn her out of their house was now clearly satisfied that, with all the distractions of neighbors and sidestreets and alternate routes out of the way, Arthur would follow the only course left open to him and would continue of his own free will into the woods.

And Arthur Bates Dodd did just that.

His was instantly transfixed by the smooth fall of snow that had sprung up, clouding the sky as the flakes silently tumbled from the heavens like diamonds through the trees; the iridescent covering glowed spectrally under the muted moonlight, stretching as a blue-white sheet into forever, the long avenue like a great white tunnel capped by the black vaulted dome of the sky. His footfalls made no more sound than a soft crunch; the lone call of an owl was quickly absorbed by the insulating snow, leaving Arthur alone in the wood with Helix at his side, her coat shining like the trunks of the leafless trees, standing in stark contrast to the world around them.

As they walked, the clouds thinned again and the snow stopped, allowing the starshine and moonlight to add a sharp silver lining to everything, which glowed as if lighted from within. Arthur kept moving behind Helix, his knees aching—he didn’t remember this avenue, which they had walked down many times, to be so long. But the stillness and solitude of winter soothed him and he didn’t mind; dreaded, in fact, the thought of soon emerging from the other end in another neighborhood. Yet when the end came into view, Arthur saw not the flashy windows and shiny siding of modern upscale homes, but instead, as if carved into the very landscape, the sharp angles and dormers of a Pioneer-era congregational church, the ruins of which Arthur had heard stories, but had himself never found. He stopped for a moment and turned around, to see how far past the upscale homes they were (and how he had missed them), but saw nothing except an unbroken expanse of trees and snow behind him, sleeping happily in the moonlight. When he turned back, there it sat, a quiet monolith with a blank stare, dark windows for eyes, its stairs rolled out like a tongue, the snow already cleared from them as if to allow safe access for the early faithful.

Helix pulled anew at the sight of the humble cathedral and Arthur allowed himself to be forced forward by her. The pair stopped just before the first step, Helix looking expectantly from Arthur to the church, and Arthur gazing expectantly at the spire that loomed above them. The moon’s light etched deep shadows over the surface of the cross’s tower, in contrast to the ivory sheen of the white-washed siding that glowed from the south and west, but hung in darkness elsewhere. The cross itself, situated resplendently atop the spire, brooding over every tree, hill, and homestead, was black like the sky behind it, the copper having long since weathered to a dull memory of its former self. Arthur knew the cross was there only by the faintest trace of shining black against the black sky, glistening almost imperceptibly, like a distant cluster of stars barely visible to the naked eye. Even through the dulling motion of Time the cross found light with which to shine, however feebly, and Arthur was touched by the resilience of human endeavors to praise that which we hold sacred.

Arthur was touched, but more so by the hand of Time itself, for though the church looked far from ruined to him, he knew that even this hallowed ground would one day give way to make room for a new road with more houses and a strip mall. Arthur was touched by this faded glory, still standing tall against the stampede of progress that considered holding onto the past an impediment to advancing, as if that which was worthy from the past could not be brought into the future unchanged. Arthur closed his eyes for a moment and thanked whatever force had so far spared this forgotten holy site, and prayed that its protection would be sustained.

He opened his eyes and brought his gaze back down to the church’s door, at which point Arthur Dodd saw that he and Helix were not alone. At the top of the stairs a small man in a dashing gray tuxedo grinned kindly. Helix sat beside Arthur and shifted her front paws excitedly, her tail wagging against the ground, curling whisps of snow into the air.

“Moongazing?” the man assumed, smiling more widely. He stood with his hands clasped behind his back and offered Arthur a small bow, the moonlight glinting off his bald pate, surrounded by a ring of puffy, gray hair.

“What’s that?” Arthur checked. He began to climb the stairs toward the man, Helix bounding as far ahead as her leash would allow.

“Didn’t you notice the moon tonight? It’s bigger. Well, closer, really.” The man pointed over Arthur’s head. When he turned to look, he saw that the moon had dispersed the snow clouds. It’s white eye indeed appeared swollen—brighter, larger, perhaps even closer.

“It’s at perigee,” the man explained in the kindly tone of conferred wisdom. While Arthur had been transfixed by the moon, the man had moved to Arthur’s side, and the sudden closeness of his voice gave Arthur a start. Helix sat obediently looking up at the man, her tongue lolling from her mouth, her eyes smiling. The man smelled vaguely of mothballs, but his face shone brightly with life and vibrancy.

“It’s closer,” he said again, with a wink. “It’s been many, many years since the last full moon at perigee, and many, many more since that happened on the solstice.”

“No wonder it was so bright, even through the clouds,” was all Arthur could think to say. The man nodded once and smiled broadly.

“Well, come into the church, friend … Moongazer, stargazer, snowgazer—whatever you be, any man who braves the secrets of a winter night is a friend to me.”

“I didn’t know this church still had a congregation,” Arthur said as they walked up the steps, Helix beating them both to the top. “In fact, I’d heard it was in ruins.”

“Oh, it’s still here,” the man acknowledged. “Though the congregation is not, so much.”

“So do you often come to church this early?” They reached the massive rectangular wooden doors and the man silently pushed the left door open far enough for them to enter.

“On Christmas morning I do,” he replied. “I like to get it ready for them and clear off the stairs.” He glanced again at the moon as he spoke, then ducked through the door and waited for Arthur to follow.

“Oh—my dog?” Arthur suddenly realized, pulling Helix short as they entered the vestibule. The man just smiled and slowly closed the door behind them.

“Don’t worry, Mr. Dodd, Helix is as welcome here as anyone.”

Arthur’s face went blank at the man’s congenial use of his name, after no introduction, not to mention the name of his dog, but something in the way he smiled and walked into the church stopped Arthur from making a comment. He could hear the organist warming up already, plying the keys evenly with long-practiced, habitual forethought.

“I’m sorry,” said Arthur, catching up to the man, Helix seemingly at home joging between the pews with him. “I didn’t properly introduce myself. I’m Arthur Bates—”

The man turned and grinned with a strange twinkle in his eyes that stopped Arthur short. “Helix told me who you are,” the man said. Arthur, stunned again, said nothing and allowed himself to be led to the first pew, where the man sat down and offered his guest a seat.

Had Arthur felt any sense of malice about the place, or his enigmatic host, he would certainly have bolted back down the pews in horror and not have slowed his gait until safely back behind the locked door of his house. But as he glanced around at the Christmas greenery lit by the warm glow of candles, which sparkled off the brass ornamentation, Arthur felt nothing even close to ill will. In fact, with Helix—his most trusted and discerning companion—sitting obediently at their feet, allowing the man to pet her, Arthur felt not only welcome, but somehow right at home. The man’s eyes glistened merrily in the candlelit church and he smiled widely at Arthur again.

“Do you know why tonight is so special?” he asked. Arthur glanced around the relatively plain church for signs of a Nativity, but saw nothing save the evergreen garlands and white candles, echoing the spectral glow of the moonlit windows.

“The solstice is almost over, Arthur,” the man continued. “Tomorrow will be three days hence and the sun shall begin her journey east again—but for now, Time still belongs to the moon. And do you know what else?”

“No,” Arthur managed to breath.

“When the moon is full at the winter solstice, the Willowfolk climb the highest trees and leap into the heavens to replenish their supply of moondust, which they use to create our most meaningful dreams. Even Helix dreams, Arthur,” the man added, as if testing him. “And with the moon at perigee—well, the Willowfolk can just collect that much more.”

“Willowfolk?” Arthur wondered. It was a tale he’d not heard before, and Arthur had thought sure his mother had known them all.

“Christmas sprites, Mr. Dodd,” the man replied, leaning in secretively and whispering. All around them the soft, volumous breaths of the organ twirled as the candle flames bowed in time with the sombre carols. “They make magic for us, Arthur. Moon magic—they straighten the handlebars on a boy’s bicycle while he sleeps and make the Christmas pudding perfect every year and heal a young girl’s puppy before it dies and bring loved ones back to visit—”

“Loved ones?” Arthur whispered back, his voice cracking.

“Yes, Arthur. The Willowfolk are everything you can’t explain. They live in the willow trees, in plain sight of those who stop to look. And their magic is strongest tonight—their moondust is fresh and thickest. Look, Arthur,” the man smiled, pointing to the window. Arthur looked out and saw the sharp sparkles of snow beyond drifting down again. “Is that snow, Arthur?” the man whispered dramatically. “Or Christmas snow?”

“Moondust…” Arthur said softly. He turned to the man with a wide, understanding smile, but he was no longer seated beside him. The man now stood in the center of a raised platform at the front of the church. Behind him, a small orchestra tuned up in the candlelit moonlight, and Arthur saw that the man now held a conductor’s baton. A woman touched Arthur’s left arm, startling him, and urged him to follow her to the front. Helix yapped once excitedly, urging Arthur to follow the woman, so he dropped his dog’s leash and did just that. She led him out a door to the right of the orchestra, and he followed her along a corridor which led behind the altar. They re-emerged on the other side of the church, in the wings beside the orchestra.

Standing at the entrance, stage left, Arthur had a slight panic attack: The only open seat on the stage was that of Regilia Smith—clearly his performance earlier had been duly noted and he had finally been forced into retirement. This was just an extremely odd and cruel way of informing him of the fact, especially since the walk had made him feel more alive than he had in years. Even his back had stopped aching, and his knees had ceased popping as he moved his weight.

“My seat—” Arthur began, turning to the woman with a plaintive stare.

“Your seat is waiting, Mr. Dodd.” It was the man—the conductor—who answered quietly, now beside him again, waiting for him to make his entrance. The warm-ups were apparently over and Arthur could hear the slow rumble of the audience as the conductor bided his time until he could return to the stage. Arthur just looked at him with mild shock.

“Your seat—there,” the conductor said, pointing with his baton. “First violin.”

“First violin?” Arthur stammered, his voice quivering with nerves.

“You’ve earned it, I’d say. Wouldn’t you?”

“I … But … I—”

“Mr. Dodd, our audience is waiting.” The conductor gave him a friendly nudge and Arthur stepped forward to catch his balance, his toe breaking the circle of light on the stage—too far for him to turn back now. He followed his first step with another and another and soon realized the applause was for him: Arthur Bates Dodd, first violin. When he finally assumed his seat (after a light bow), he heard, but did not see, the audience take their own seats—they had been on their feet for him.

“My dog is sitting in the first row,” Arthur whispered to the second violin, his mind feeling fuzzy. “Do you suppose she’ll be all right?”

“Quite sure, sir,” the violinist replied congenially, smoothing out the music on his stand to feign attention to something other than frivilous conversation. “I’m sorry,” he then added, as an afterthought. “I thought your dog had passed just last night?”

“She did,” Arthur agreed without hesitation, the sudden clarity serving only to further cloud his thoughts. He turned to his own music and lifted his violin.

“Then I imagine she will certainly be waiting there for you, sir,” the second violin explained, glancing at Arthur out the corner of his eye and smiling. “In the front row, as you said.”

Arthur nodded, his thoughts cut off by the sound of more applause as the conductor walked onto the stage. Arthur stood nervously to receive him and the two men offered each other a slight bow as they shook hands. Arthur caught a glimpse of his own sleeve as he did so—at his own gray morning tuxedo that looked as crisp and new as the freshly falling snow. He didn’t stop to wonder how he had become so dressed because when he glanced over the conductor’s shoulder he saw the tiny blobs of faces floating in the darkness, hands moving beneath them in blurred prayers of applause.

“You must be quite good,” Arthur whispered to the conductor. The man smiled knowingly, then turned and assumed the podium. Arthur took his seat and raised his violin again, aware only peripherally that his back was straight and rigid and his attention completely focused.

***

Throughout the oratorio, Arthur Bates Dodd worked his violin like a woodcutter, his back arched into every note, his bald pate shimmering beneath a sheen of sweat, his white shirt wrunkled underneath his tuxedo’s strained seems. Every sound, every measure, came to him as if it were the last, each note dripping from the one before, forming a chain that stretched to encircle the church and its congregation. His playing enlivened the orchestra, each member inspired to ply their strings or caress their reeds to keep up with the fervency of the first violin.

But Arthur Dodd was oblivious to any of it. He simply played, watching his queues and bleeding his violin for every ripe, untouched sound he could muster. The strings quivered beneath his nimble fingers like his strings had never quivered before. Arthur slowly became aware of the heat under the lights, and that the exertion was causing him to sweat more and more; he was also dimly aware of the orchestra fading around him. First the horns and percussion distorted like heat shimmers and faded from view, into the sound of their instruments. Next faded the cellists and violins, and the reed instruments and even the chorus, too, yet Arthur could still hear them all, leaving the energy of their playing in the air around him, though they had faded away.

The conductor caught Arthur’s eye and winked, then he, too, faded, along with the enrapt audience behind him. But even the sight of an empty church couldn’t break Arthur’s concentration. None of it mattered in the movement of the music—the full notes like waves carried him aloft and Arthur Dodd quite forgot where he was or that he sat alone in a ruined church, snow falling in clumps from the rafters around him.

Then, slowly, the sounds of the other instruments faded, like echoes reaching the summit of a valley and escaping into the aether. Arthur could still hear his own violin, its sound now far above that of the others, its pure strings vibrating in unison with the universe, not creating sound so much as giving voice to the beauty of a winter’s night.

Finally, he pulled the last glimmering note from his violin, its music evaporating into the air, bouncing softly from the sodden rafters and crumbling pews before escaping from the roofless building forever. Arthur Dodd sat in the first violin’s seat and slumped his back. A dog barked three times and he heard the soft clatter of its claws as it trotted across the wooden floor toward him.

“Hey, girl,” he said absently, dropping his hand to her. Then Arthur Dodd slumped forward and fell from his seat, the shadow of his music stand like a weight across his back.

Outside, the moon moved on and glistened somewhere else.

©2009 by David Christopher.

I don’t recall when I first became aware that a dog appeared to be following me. I was out and about one day, doing errands, when I noticed the soft clink of the tags around its neck; a sound that I had seemed to have been hearing for some time, but hadn’t fully registered as following me until that moment. It sounded quite close, so I looked down with a smile to greet my new companion, but I saw nothing there; nothing behind me, either. Shaking my head, I continued on.

The sound continued as well, sporadically, like wind chimes blown by an unfelt breeze. It was almost as if the dog—if indeed it was a dog—would only make itself known when I had fully dismissed, and nearly forgotten, it. Every time I heard the tags I would stop and look around myself; every time I would see nothing but my own foolish shadow mocking my movements.

My errands took me on a foot-journey of about forty-five minutes, but it wasn’t until I neared my home that I fancied I heard the precise click of claws on the sidewalk behind me, along with the quiver of the tags. I stopped once more, this time turning to the sound and bending over as if to greet an actual dog.

“Here, boy,” I offered, holding out my hand for the animal to smell. I heard the scuttle-click of its claws and could well-imagine the dog doing a nervous dance before me, unsure of whether or not to approach. I got the distinct impression that it was a mid-sized dog, even going so far as to envision a black Labrador. It was quite gentle, even harmless, and I barely jumped when something cold and wet brushed against the thumb of my dangling hand.

“That’s it,” I said, recovering from my mild shock. “What do you want, boy?” Most people ask dogs serious questions which, of course, go unanswered, but seeing as this dog had already displayed itself to be anything but an average dog, I allowed that it may break some aural, as well as visual, norms and respond to my question. In a way, I suppose it did.

Just below the knee, where pants hang out in a straight line, I felt a tug on the fabric. A playful, but insistent, growl accompanied this ghostly pull on my pant-leg, so I instinctively straightened back up, ready to move.

“Where to?” I asked in the tone reserved for animals and small children, and I heard a small bark in response and the excited back-tracking of claws away from me.

“Well don’t run off!” I cautioned, glancing around for any spies. “I won’t be able to keep up!”

The possibility of insanity flitted across my mind like the sudden dart of a spring bird, and I considered that acquiring a ghost-dog was surely the least harmful form of the disease. Then the dog barked lightly again and began to click slowly away, stopping every so often to, I imagine, cast a glance over its shoulder at my progress. I quickly followed the now-constant click and jangle back down the street the way I had just come. I tried my hardest not to look as if I was following something that wasn’t there, but the only person I met began to wave, then seemed to think the better of it, giving me instead a curious look. I just smiled politely and hurried after the ghost-dog.

I was led right back into town to a house in the midst of businesses. It is an old structure with a grand porch and wood siding, and may well be the last remnant of the town before the city. I had often admired the building as I passed it from time to time; the wood carvings hanging from the gutters and around the gable windows are an artistry the new, material world seems to have forgotten. Only twice before had I actually been inside the house, save for coffee in the back room: The lower floor now housed an art gallery, and the upper floors, as I understood it, served as the curator’s apartment and storage areas.

Inside it was cool and dark and, as I had expected, between shows. Various covered paintings were leaning against the walls, waiting to be attached to their respective positions; I could hear the curator in the back somewhere, perhaps hanging some of the pieces for the new show. The dog, however, had no interest in the back, trotting instead up the stairs to the second floor. The staircase itself is a work of art, sweeping up out of the small foyer in a graceful, winding arch, giving the space the illusion of grand size, but never had I entertained the thought of going up them. They were not roped off, but to ascend them seemed a violation of some unspoken rule, since neither did they have any notices inviting the public up.

I followed the sound of the dog with my eyes, along the curve of the stairway, until my gaze caught the room at the head of the stairs—a room bleeding an odd red glow that was the only light seeping into the upper floor. The effect was at once disturbing and calming, and I found myself entirely unsure of what to do. As if to solve my dilemma, the dog barked again from directly in front of the room, and the light seemed to momentarily intensify in response to the noise. I wet my lips nervously and cast an ear into the gallery: The curator was still hanging paintings and I could hear no one conversing or moving about in the coffee room. I looked up the stairs again, at that darkness sliced through only by the red glow, and ran my tongue once more over my lips. Placing a steadying hand on the banister and swallowing my nervous guilt, I began my ascent.
The risers creaked casually under my weight, telling tales of time-wear to all who cared to listen; I rose slowly, not wanting them to talk too loudly. Ahead of me I heard the dog’s excited, honest patter; in fact, I may have been repelled from continuing up because of the red luminescence, but with the dog skitting about, it somehow lost its sinister edge and I managed to fully ascend the staircase.

The door was open, allowing the light to spill forth, and I could see that the sign on it read. “storage;” within I could hear the dog clicking on the wooden floor and I took a bashful, curious peek in. I could see a black Labrador plain as day dancing excitedly around an old woman with a cane who was teasing the animal with a treat. I turned to sneak back down the stairs, filled with a strange mixture of guilt, serenity, and foreboding, but then the woman looked up at me, smiling, and allowed the dog to finally snap the treat from her fingers.

“I saw you walking by earlier,” she explained. “So I sent Nicholas after you.” The dog barked proudly at the mention of its name and wagged its tail, gazing at me.

I moved cautiously such that I was fully in the doorway. The red light made it impossible for me to clearly discern color, but it appeared as if the woman had on a light blue housecoat decorated with dark blue flowers. She shifted her position and tapped her cane once on the floor, smiling again. Her short, white hair reflected the red light, much as her soft, white, wrinkled skin did, and the eyes behind her glasses shone happily.

“Come in, won’t you?” she asked. I silently obliged. A brief look around showed me that the room was bare—no source for the red light that I could see—save the two of us and Nicholas, the dog. The only window had a heavy curtain drawn across it, and a glance at the overhead fixture proved that the usual light source—though red, as a preservation technique for stored works— was turned off. When I looked back down to the woman I noticed that, where it had been bare seconds before, there now stood an easel set up with canvas and paints.

“I need your help,” the woman said, drawing my attention back to her. “I am Irene Burgman; that’s my show the curator is setting up.”

“Oh,” I said, my voice sounding odd and hollow in the room.

“I’m too old,” she continued. “I need you to hold the brushes, because I never painted Nicholas…”

“I’m no painter!” I replied, slightly confused; my voice sounded too loud, too full in the red room, but the woman didn’t seem fazed by what I had said, or how loudly I had said it. Nicholas sat down, panting, his eyes still carefully watching me.

“I don’t need a painter,” Irene said nicely with a bright smile. “I just need someone to hold the brushes—I’ll tell you exactly what to do.” Her smile broke when I didn’t respond and her expression dropped. “Please, young man, let me finish my work…I just have to paint Nicholas.”

I sighed and smiled, shrugging and moving quickly to the old woman. What harm could there be in appeasing an aging artist who was probably too arthritic to hold her own brushes? All my suspicions, all my cares about the odd lighting and the former ghost-dog—all the things any person in that situation would normally think of—fled from my mind as if the woman’s grandmotherly smile had hypnotized me in some way. I was so consumed with pleasing the old lady that I hastily sat down and prepared the palate, as per her careful instructions, as she stood sideways to me, pointing with her gnarled old finger, but never touching anything. She quietly told me exactly what to do—all her secrets, I imagine. How to hold which brush or knife, how much color to mix, where to put it and how heavily. She gave explicit directions on every detail of the piece, but never once did she touch me or any of the tools. When I would glance at her from time to time she would be smiling proudly and reassuringly, and Nicholas would add an excited little bark and patter in place beside Irene Burgman. After about a half hour I began to see his form appearing out of the dark background of the canvas: Nicholas was lying, head on paws, face gazing alertly at the viewer. Only twice did Irene find cause to shriek a horrified “No! No! Not there!” and then set about flusteredly telling me how to fix my mistake. Yet even in this frustrated state, she touched nothing.

Within an hour the painting of Nicholas was complete, and I could tell that the color and detail were exceptional. I felt no pride of creation, however, as I fully understood that I had merely been a tool of Irene Burgman’s, no more worthy of credit than the very brush I held. As I stood and backed away from the work—which I had signed with her signature. “Burgie,” flubbing the “B” slightly—I began to feel a deep admiration for the piece, and I knew that it was as much the work of Irene Burgman as any of the other pieces downstairs.

“Thank you,” I heard her say from behind me, with tears in her voice. I turned to offer my thanks to her for allowing me to be privy to her artistry, but the room was empty; neither she nor Nicholas were anywhere to be seen or heard. Confused, I looked back to the painting, but the easel and tools, too, had vanished, leaving in their place a canvas covered with a cheesecloth, leaning against the wall. A corner, bearing the signature of the artist, was exposed, and it was only by seeing the signature’s smeared “B” that I knew it to be the piece I had seconds ago completed. I instinctively went to remove the cloth from the canvas, lest it destroy the wet oils, but all at once the hypnosis—if such there had been—was broken, and as I backed up several steps, toward the door, I began shaking my head, convinced that I had entered some realm of insanity so deep as to seem real, yet knowing just as surely that I was not insane at all.

I turned and bolted out of the room, bounding back down the stairs, almost tripping up on the pile of folded cheese cloths at the foot. I saw that the show was now completely hung, and from the back room I could hear the curator talking to somebody. I walked unsteadily toward the voices and found him conversing with a young brunette girl who looked to be in the process of leaving; neither noticed me at first, which was just as well, as I was trying my best to erase a look of horrified realization from my face. Their conversation ended at that moment with loud “so longs,” as if to indicate that I could safely enter without disrupting them.

“You look lost, friend,” the curator said as the girl brushed past me with a shy glance and smile. “Coffee?”

“No—thanks,” I replied, wanting to ask my questions and leave.

“Umm…Who’s show is that you’ve just hung?”

“Oh…Irene Burgman’s her name,” he answered, motioning for me to sit with him at the window table. I followed him over, but I did not sit, my mind trying to whir through what I needed to know.

“And…she’s…here?” I guessed, trying not to sound too distraught. He narrowed his eyes at me and sipped his coffee, his head twitching with mild disbelief.

“Nooo…I’m afraid she’ll miss her own show… But surely you’ve heard?” He waved at the girl, who had been inside before, as she walked past the window, back up the alley, signifying to us that she had no clue what she’d been thinking to go out the front way.

“Heard what?” I asked, trying to sound curious, not afraid. The curator turned his attention back to me and sighed, his expression a tad suspicious.

“She died last week, you know… Strangest thing really, because her dog died not two hours later. She was famous for loving that dog.” He smiled affectionately, but I just gaped and took a step back, covering my mouth slowly, my eyes wild with impossibility.

“Oh, that’s very sad,” I gasped, catching my breath and managing to marginally recompose myself. The curator cocked his head with concern.

“Okay?” he asked.

“Yes, yes—fine,” I stammered. “I—uhh—I have to go now, I think.” And then I very rudely turned and dashed down the hall to the front door, casting a glance over my shoulder as I left, to the room upstairs; it was completely dark, and the door was shut tight.

©1998 by David Christopher.
This story was originally published in The MacGuffin.