The sacred land - Ghost Dog

The village of Bac Bien, where I was born, lies quietly beneath the Long Bien Bridge, along the banks of the Red River. My grandmother had four children: my mother, the eldest, followed by my uncles, D. and C., and my aunt, T. (I’ve abbreviated their names for personal reasons). In 1986, Uncle D. welcomed his first child, a daughter named Linh. That same year, my grandmother brought home a pair of dogs from the village, named Tin and Mic. She cherished them like her own grandchildren, treating Linh and the dogs as equals.

For 15 years, Tin and Mic lived with the family. Tin was intelligent and seemed to understand people’s intentions, while Mic was peculiar, always preferring solitude. Tin would often wander around the yard, keeping an eye on the chickens for Uncle D. and even fetching baskets from the kitchen when asked. Mic, on the other hand, rarely barked, only growling deep in his throat, but he was an excellent guard dog. No other dog or cat dared come near our house.

In 2001, the Red River rose to dangerous levels.

One evening, Tin didn’t return home as usual. The next morning, Uncle D. found him lying dead by the bamboo grove. He brought the body back and buried it under a banana tree in the garden. My grandmother didn’t say a word all morning. She was silent, her eyes heavy with sorrow.

At noon, while drying rice in the yard, she heard the steady sound of a wooden stick tapping—tap... tap... tap—from the back of the house. Thinking there was a visitor, she went inside to grab her hat and then walked out. But from a distance, she saw a familiar figure: Tin. But he wasn’t walking on four legs; he was walking on two, wearing her conical hat, his tongue hanging out, red and raw, with his front paws clutching a stick. He moved with heavy, deliberate steps, as if feeling his way back home from the afterlife. My grandmother froze in place, barely able to stammer out a call for Uncle D.

Both my uncle and aunt rushed out, standing as still as statues when they saw Tin. Slowly, he made his way toward the gate, each step heavy and deliberate, freezing the air around him. As Tin neared the gate, Uncle D. rushed forward to chase after him, but he only managed to catch a glimpse of Tin disappearing behind the gate. By the time he reached the spot, Tin had vanished without a trace.

Terrified, my grandmother hurried back inside to light incense. All three of them were pale, their faces drained of blood.

When they later recounted the story, no one believed them, dismissing it as a trick of the eyes.

That night, heavy rain poured down. Our house, close to the riverbank, was buffeted by the sound of waves crashing loudly against the shore. The next morning, Uncle D. went out to the garden and found Tin’s grave had been dug up, and his body was missing. All around were nothing but dog tracks.

To this day, my grandmother still believes that Tin and Mic never left. They’re still lingering somewhere in the garden, though we can no longer see them...