The Venetian Ghost

Just saying… maybe it wasn’t just a ghost after all. Maybe we had encountered an animal spirit in this old house. It could have been the spirit of a dog, still wandering the halls, guarding the house. Or perhaps it was one of those Venetian ghost stories come to life, lingering in the shadows. Whatever it was, I’d like to share it….

I felt it—a warm, foul breath on my forehead. I turned in my bed, plunging my head into the pillow in hopes of avoiding the overpowering stench. But that only made me more focused on the unbearable warmth of it. Steamy and moist, and then there was the sound. The familiar panting only a dog owner would know. I grumbled for my dog to find a better way to spend her time.

“Cujo, go away. Get off the bed.”

But the panting became heavier, the heat on my forehead more intense. So I shifted once more, this time twisting so that my eyes were buried deep into the pillow. I was in a sweet place, the magical place between dreaming and being awake. The precious moment when you can control your dreams and anything can happen. It was rare, but it happened once in a while. Especially if I was subtly awakened from my slumber, like the gentle panting of my dog.

I had been dreaming before being somewhat awakened. I was walking on a charming cobblestone road at night. To my left was a calm river, several small boats swaying on the steady water. Apartments lined the river, their windows lit and a perfect carbon copy reflected in the waterway below.

On my right was a sweet cherub-faced boy with sandy hair and green eyes. He smiled at me as he bobbed along, following me, occasionally reaching for my finger. An older man who I somehow knew was my father cocked his head as if to say, “Hurry up.” I understood we were going to the plaza and I was excited. We walked briskly, and the damp air brushed against my face in the hot, humid night.

But the moist air was soon replaced once again with the rancid, unmistakable smell of dog breath, and I was immediately awakened again. I flailed my hand to push my dog aside, desperately wanting not to open my eyes for fear of being plucked out of my dream and the quaint riverside town.

“Cujo, get down,” I snapped, but that only resulted in a big paw placed on my shoulder, its black nails digging into my neck.

“Ouch!” I yelped to my husband. “Carl, the dog got into the bedroom, can you get him out?” I demanded as I shifted once more in bed.

But at that very moment, the sound of the panting was replaced by a police siren. Not the New York sirens that echoed through the streets of my neighborhood, not the prolonged, steady wail I was used to, but a siren I had only heard in movies. The unmistakable WEE-OOO WEE-OOO siren heard in espionage movies set in Europe. And it was at that very moment I remembered I was not in my New York suburban bedroom, but in an Air BNB in Venice on a long-awaited vacation with my two sons. And clearly, I had not brought Cujo, my yellow lab, along for the holiday abroad.

I gasped and sprung up, and with that came a loud booming bark that painted an image of a large dog the size of a Leviathan in the dark. Adrenaline shot through my veins, and my chest tightened. Through the streetlights that slithered through two large leaded glass windows, I saw the dog. A large black dog. His head was slightly tilted, and it was as solid and big as a large watermelon. His gaze was unwavering, his tongue dangling precariously out of his mouth as he darted out of the bedroom and into the hallway towards the other bedroom where both my sons were sleeping.

I leaped from the old bed, grabbed a pillow, and dashed down the hall of the old apartment, following the ticking sound of dog nails on wood planks. It was a narrow hallway, much like the streets of Florence, and it was lined with shelves on both ends, cluttered with antiques and pictures of the family that owned the 400-year-old haunted house we had rented. Although I did not know it was haunted at the time.

The ornate leaded glass window at the end of the hall let in enough light from the canals to reveal the dark, large dog making its way into the second bedroom where my sons were sharing a bed.

“Get up!” I yelped, and as I swung into their room, a ray from a streetlight in the canals fell across their bed to reveal my eldest rubbing one eye.

“What’s wrong?” he asked in a shaky voice.

My eyes scanned the room, but it was clearly void of a dog. I knew better than to say anything other than, “It’s OK.” I thought I heard someone outside of our door. “Sorry, go to bed.”

I found it hard to sleep, and part of me was upset. It’s a lonely existence when things like this happen and you can’t tell anyone for fear of sounding crazy or looking for attention. I learned many years ago to stop and keep it bottled up inside like a vile illness.

But there are always signs. Subtle signs that show me I’m not a lunatic. And one such sign appeared the next day as I was putting on my shoes. The boys were laughing in the other room, their giggles echoing through the house, blending with the soft morning light streaming through the windows and illuminating tiny dust particles in the old apartment.

“Yeah, maybe we should sleep with the doors locked, Mom,” my eldest jested. “What were you drinking? Venetian wine? You get scary, mom,” the youngest joked.

I smiled, but the comment cut me deep, and I was forced to let them berate me. Albeit funny, but not funny at the same time. “Just get ready,” I ordered with a feigned smile, then returned to the solace of my room.

As I opened the rickety closet door to retrieve my handbag, I noticed a thick yet frail red rope in the corner. I picked it up amongst the laughing in the hallway and held it to my nose to reveal the distinguishable smell of a dog. It hadn’t been there earlier, or if it was, I suppose I hadn’t seen it, which I found odd since it was curled neatly in the center of the closet as if someone had just placed it there.

I distinctly remember placing it on a frail nightstand that was pushed against the window and then looking out towards the canals where a young couple was walking peacefully and holding hands. And with that, I let the experience take its place in the back of my mind. I was on vacation, and wanted to enjoy the beautiful Venetian city.

That night, when we returned from our excursion, having had dinner with a view of the Basilica di San Marco, we poured into our apartment exhausted and ready for bed. As I waited for my sons to finish with the bathroom, I walked the thin hallway, admiring the antiques that lined the walls and a few photographs. In doing so, I noticed one that stood out. An old sepia picture in the hall of a little boy with a Dutchboy haircut and cherub lips, holding a large black dog on a long lead, a Neapolitan Mastiff it appeared, and it towered over him. In the bottom right-hand corner, in the most ornate script imaginable, was the name Nino and the date 1931. I darted back to my bedroom for the nightstand and the red rope and tore the room apart for it, but it was missing.

Just saying… maybe it wasn’t just a dog ghost after all. Or perhaps it was one of those Venetian ghost stories come to life, a Venetian ghost lingering in the shadows.