Susan Hart

Strange things had always happened in Crooked Bay, but nothing so peculiar as the evening the entire canine population seemed to lose its collective mind. On the first night, it started subtly enough: A low, nervous woof from Mrs. Prendergast's ancient beagle, followed by a chorus of yips up and down Birch Lane. By midnight, the dissonant howling shook the windowpanes and threatened to splinter the moonlight in two.
The village's foggy peace was broken as every single dog-regardless of age, breed, or temperament-barked, bayed, or howled in eerie unison. Old Edna Barkley, who had not slept through the night since Eisenhower's second term, shuffled to her stoop in slippers, certain the barks signified an impending doom. She glared into the darkness and cursed the dogs by name, but even her formidable reputation failed to silence them.
And yet, when the rest of the villagers stumbled out with flashlights and hastily knotted bathrobes, the only thing they discovered was the entire dog population at the center of the village green, sitting in a perfect circle, watching the empty gazebo as if waiting for a performance to begin. The ring of dogs stared at the gazebo, chests puffed, with an air of mutual importance, and not a single person dared to draw closer.