This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/myrasam79 on 2024-09-16 18:14:30+00:00.

About seven and a half years ago, my sister Sarah told me she wanted to adopt a dog, I didn’t think much of it. I thought it would be good for her, something to lift her spirits after a rough break up with her fiancé. And plus, she used to have this rescued dog Vince and loved every moment of his company, so it wasn’t surprising when she mentioned she wanted to adopt another one. She said she wanted to check out the local animal shelter to find “the one.” Naturally, I agreed to tag along, not realizing at the time how strange things would become.

You see, my car AC condenser broke a couple of weeks back, and I hadn’t had the chance to get it fixed. So, we drove to the shelter with my raggedy-ass car, windows down, elbows out. The sun was high up, and after several days of rain, humidity was at its peak. Pits were sweating like crazy, if I had balls they’d be sticking to my thighs. I was just complaining the whole way through on an hour and a half drive.

Finally, we got to the shelter, the place was a bit rundown, with faded signage and peeling paint, but it was the closes one we got. Sarah’s been excited, talking about different breeds and how she wanted to adopt a dog that “needed a second chance,” a dog that might not be chosen by most people.

Inside, the shelter was filled with incessant barking and whining, paired with the sweet, sweet aroma of the outside dog smell. The air was heavy with the scent of wet fur, disinfectant, and something musty that seemed to seep into the walls. A tired-looking volunteer greeted us with a humdrum hello, Sarah enthusiastically jumped in front of me and introduced her name politely, with excitement written across her face. She told him she’s looking to adopt a dog, so he led us down the rows of kennels, where dogs of all shapes and sizes wagged their tails, some barking with excitement, others looking up at us with forlorn eyes.

It was near the back of the shelter that Sarah stopped. There, sitting quietly in a kennel, was an older, medium-sized dog with salt-and-pepper fur. His eyes, dark and human-like, gave me the chills. I tried to contain myself, but couldn’t help letting out a stifled laugh. She gently slapped me on my arms and whispered, “stop it.” Sarah lowered down to its level and greeted it softly, almost a whisper, she goes, “hi, big guy.” The dog’s weird eyes locked onto hers almost immediately. He wasn’t barking or jumping around like the other dogs. Instead, he sat there, still and composed, as if he already knew she was the one who would take him home.

“This is him,” Sarah said softly, her voice full of certainty.

The dog’s name was Charlie, according to the small plaque on his kennel. The volunteer explained that Charlie had been there for a while. Most people passed him over because of his age; he was somewhere around eight or nine years old, and while his health was stable, he didn’t have the energy or youthfulness that many people wanted in a dog.

I guess Sarah didn’t care about any of that. She fell in love with him instantly, and there was no doubt in her mind that Charlie was coming home with her. After filling out the necessary paperwork and gathering some supplies, we left the shelter with Charlie in tow. He sat quietly in the backseat on the ride to his new home, his eyes half-closed, occasionally looking out the window as if he knew he was headed toward a new chapter of his life.

Over the next week, Sarah and Charlie became inseparable. The dog, despite his age, seemed to brighten up her home. He was sweet and calm, just as he had been at the shelter, following her from room to room, his tail wagging gently. She sent me pictures every day, grinning as she showed off her new companion lounging on the couch, sleeping at her feet, or sniffing around the backyard. I couldn’t help but feel happy for her. She’d found exactly what she was looking for in Charlie.

A week later, I decided to visit her place. Sarah had a business trip out of town for a couple of days and had asked if I could check in on Charlie while she was gone. I agreed, of course. It didn’t seem like a big deal at the time—just feeding the dog, making sure he had enough water, and letting him out into the backyard when needed.

When I arrived, the house was quiet, and Charlie was lying on his bed in the living room, just as calm as ever. But as soon as I stepped into the room, I noticed something unsettling. Charlie’s eyes were fixed on me in a way that felt different from before. He wasn’t just looking at me—he was staring, his dark human-like eyes following every movement I made. It was unnerving, to say the least.

I shrugged it off, assuming he was just curious about the new person in the house. I greeted him with a “Hey buddy,” but he just continued to give me that unsettling poker face. As I sat down on the couch, Charlie let out a low, guttural growl from where he was lying. It wasn’t loud, but it was enough to make my skin prickle. He seemed to be fixated on the spot I was sitting in, and I quickly realized it’s probably his “spot” on the couch. Feeling a little silly, I scooted over, giving him his “spot.”

Charlie got up from his bed, he then climbed up onto the couch, settling into the spot I had vacated, but his demeanor didn’t relax. Instead, he started barking—loud, sharp barks that echoed through the living room. His years-stained canine teeth, full on display, letting me know he ain’t playin’. I stood up quickly, startled by the sudden aggression. This wasn’t the sweet, calm dog I’d seen before. Something about him felt off, different. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but a strange unease settled over me.

Rather than dealing with his aggressive behavior, I decided to leave. I filled his water bowl, left plenty of food, and made sure the back door was locked but left the doggy door open so he could go outside if he needed to. I figured it would be easier to check on him the next day. I didn’t need to be there if he was going to act like that. On my way home, I left a message to Sarah’s phone. Yes, I tattled on her dog. I told her that Charlie was acting weird and all, I figured that he might not be feeling well.

The next day, I returned to my sister’s house, hoping everything would be back to normal. But when I opened the door, I was greeted by chaos. The house was a mess, a pigsty. The floors were covered in trash, and the unmistakable smell of dog feces hit me like a wave. It was everywhere, in every corner, as if Charlie had completely lost control. And then there was the pantry, which I checked and made sure it was closed when I left the day before. The door was wide open, and the shelves looked ransacked. Sarah had a box of MREs—Meals Ready to Eat—that she kept for emergencies, and they were scattered across the floor, torn open, and half-eaten. But the dog food, which sat in a bag right next to the pantry, had been left untouched. What struck me as even more bizarre was that the pantry has a door knob, I can’t imagine how Charlie’s dog paw turning the knob.

I stood there, trying to make sense of what I was seeing. Now, before you ask, yes, I checked everywhere to see if there were any signs of breaking and entering. Everything was locked. And the only way in and out was the doggy door. Unless the thief was a small child it’s possible. Charlie, meanwhile, sat in the middle of the room, his eyes once again locked onto mine. That same eerie stare. He didn’t bark this time, didn’t growl. He just watched me as I cleaned up the mess. His gaze, never wavering. Still gives me the heebie-jeebies, thinking about it.

After cleaning up the house, I filled Charlie’s bowl with food and water again, left the doggy door open, and got out of there as quickly as I could. I blocked the pantry door with one of Sarah’s dining chairs to make sure it would stay closed. The entire situation was starting to make my skin crawl, I could still picture Charlie’s weird fucking stare, his human-like eyes. On the drive home, I called Sarah again, telling her what had happened. I expected her to be concerned, but instead, she just laughed.

“You’re being ridiculous,” she said. “He’s an old dog. He probably just got confused.”

Confused or not, something about Charlie wasn’t sitting right with me. But my sister seemed unconcerned, and she told me she’d be back the next day, so I let it go. Maybe she was right. Maybe I was overreacting.

The next afternoon, my sister returned from her trip, and I went over to check on her and Charlie. To my surprise, the house was spotless. Everything was back in order, and there was no sign of the destruction I had witnessed the day before. And Charlie—well, he was back to being his sweet, calm self, sitting next to my sister with his tail wagging gently as if nothing had ever happened.

As we sat in her living room, I brought up the strange behavior I had noticed. I told her about the growling, the barking, the pantry being ransacked, the untouched dog food. I even told her about the door knob being round and smooth, “it’s impossible for a dog to turn it,” I said. But my sister just laughed, brushing it off like I was making a big deal out of nothing.

“Charlie’s a good dog,” she said, scratching his ears affectionately. “You probably just stressed him out. He’s old, you know? He’s not used to having other people around.”

Maybe she was right. Maybe it was just the stress of her being gone, the ch…

Content cut off. Read original on https://old.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/1fiboqf/i_think_my_sisters_dog_charlie_was_not_a_dog/