If Your Child Sees Something Called The ‘Tall Dog’, Please Take It Very, Very Seriously

Chloé Coislier
Chloé Coislier

We always expect life to be easier than it actually is. Why is that? Why do we assume we are owed happiness? Why do we act so surprised when things go wrong? Is it the society we live in? Is it the false advertising that surrounds us at all times? Is it because of the things we watch or the books we read? Why is tragedy always so shocking?

Life is a slog of disappointment and misery. Sometimes we are graced with pockets of joy, brief respite from all the hardship. In these moments, we feel like we have figured out what the purpose of our existence truly is: Love, family, culture, travel, natural beauty.
But it’s all bullshit.

Those fleeting hours of contentment are nothing more than a quick breath between beatings. It’s a ray of hope that gets stuck inside our minds like a cancer. We hold into it, we beg for it, we scream for it. During times of unbearable mental agony, having something to hope for is worse than if there was no hope at all. Hope is a lie. It’s a disease that tricks our minds into thinking this painful reality is going to evaporate like a puff of breath on a cold wind.
And let me assure you, reality is a brutal, bloody corpse.

Now, you might be reading this and thinking: I’m not like this. I have a good life, a healthy family, and I’m financially secure.

Let me tell you, I hope you enjoy your quick breath of clean air because there’s a bomb falling over your head. You might not see it yet, but it’s descending at a tremendous speed. When you least expect it, it’ll land and devastate your entire existence. It will destroy everything you love and it will leave you broken and weeping in the fucking gutter.

Why am I telling you this?

Why should you listen to me?

Because the bomb has already dropped on me. Because the fallout is unbearable and I can’t seem to find a gasp of clean air in this toxic wasteland of life. My throat burns, my eyes water, and I can’t speak for fear of tearing my silenced throat.

My wife is dead.


Elias Witherow

Elias is a prolific author of horror fiction. His books include The Third Parent, The Black Farm, Return to the Black Farm,and The Worst Kind of Monsters.

“Growing up reading the works of King, admiring the art of Geiger, and knowing fiends like Pinhead left me as a pretty jaded horror fan today. It takes a lot to get the breath to hitch in my throat and the hair on the back of my neck to stand on end.. My fiance is quite similar, so when he eagerly begged me to let him read me a short story about The Black Farm by Elias Witherow, I knew it had to be good... And I was not dissapointed. Elias has a way of painting a picture that you can feel with all your senses and plays the tunes of terror created when our world meets one much more dark and forces you to keep turning the pages hungry for more.” —C. Houser

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