Harley ran with me every morning. My Dad's retired hunting dog was my favorite jogging partner, with his floppy ears that hung almost all the way to the gravel as he happily waddled along next to me.

But today as we rounded the curve of my road he slowed all of the sudden. I stopped, scared that this was one of the first signs of his advanced age.

His fur stuck up along his spine and he muttered a breathy bark of warning.

"What's got you all riled up?" I asked.

He looked at me, and then turned and took off running towards the house. In shock, I watched the old dog's rear in full gallop disappearing back around the corner.

I shrugged it off and attributed it to some kind of residual hunting instinct.

I jogged on, our nearest neighbor's house was just ahead. Their Doberman Pinschers that lived under the porch usually came out to greet Harley and me, but today they stayed concealed under the wood planks.

I waved to the dogs anyway and kept my pace. The only other house for a few miles was a long abandoned shack a little while down the road.

It hadn't been used since before I was born. Someone bought it a few years back, presumably for the land, but had neglected to tear it down.

I was passing it like I did every morning but was interrupted by a loud banging. The splintering wooden door was ajar and smacking against the frame in the wind.

I slowed down. I'd been down the road from the house my entire life and I'd never seen the door unlocked.

I'd spent most of my life refusing to get near it because of its obvious creepy factor. But I was curious about this sudden change, and I didn't have to worry about Harley running off into the nearby woods.

The sun rose and with it came the sticky summer heat that clung to my skin. I ran in the morning to prevent the feeling, but I figured after my little adventure I'd follow Harley's suit and head home.

I had to walk through a thick layer of grass to get to the porch. It stretched across the length of the shack but was almost too narrow for a chair to sit comfortably.

It creaked as I shifted my weight onto it, and I flinched. My heart jumped up into my throat but I swallowed it back down. There was no reason to get freaked out.

I pushed the door open with a single finger and set a foot inside. There were no light switches or outlets.

I estimated only two rooms, the front one included just a moldy recliner and plywood leaned against the wall.

The carpet was peeling and there was an even layer of trash that melded together to create a topographical landscape to the floor.

There was a doorway to the left that led to what looked like a type of kitchen, although all I could see was a small black wood burning stove and water damaged tile floors.

My heart was pounding but it would have felt worthless to get this far and not see the whole thing. I doubted I would be able to work up the nerve to come back.

The floors squeaked with every step but I was dead set on getting an eyeful.

But the second I fully rounded the corner I regretted it.

On the floor in front of a rusted stove was a bloated body.

The odor, which I had originally attributed to the mold and trash, finally rang true as pure rot.

The body was laying on a blackened pile of garbage. It was long enough that I assumed it was male, but nothing else about it was distinguishable.

Most of the clothes were ripped. The skin beneath them inflamed and a mix of unnatural colors.

Luckily the face was tipped away from me, so I was spared that image because based on the rest of the body it was going to be distorted beyond recognition.

After a moment of hesitation, I bolted out the door, leaving it swinging behind me.

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