The Howling Abyss: The Town That Loved Dogs More Than Human Beings: A Story
The town of Sheol's Hollow lay nestled in a valley so deep that the sun barely kissed its streets by midday. It was a place where the air smelled of pine and wet earth, where the rivers ran clear, and where the people worshipped at an altar no one dared name aloud. The town was unremarkable in every way—except for one peculiar obsession: dogs. Not just any dogs, but hounds of every breed, size, and temperament. They roamed the streets freely, their barks echoing through the valley like a chorus of misplaced devotion.
The townsfolk loved their dogs more than anything—more than their children, more than their neighbors, more than the God who had formed them from the dust of the earth. They fed them the finest cuts of meat, adorned them with jeweled collars, and built them shrines in their homes. The dogs were their protectors, their companions, their gods. And in Sheol's Hollow, no one questioned it.
But there was one man who did.
Ezekiel Crane was a preacher, though he had no congregation. He had come to Sheol's Hollow years ago, drawn by a vision of a town drowning in its own sin. He had tried to warn them, to remind them of the words of the Lord: "So God created man in His own image, in the image of God He created him; male and female He created them" (Genesis 1:27). But the people had laughed at him, their laughter mingling with the barks of their beloved hounds.
"You speak of the image of God," they sneered, "but our dogs are loyal. They do not betray us. They do not lie. They are pure."
Ezekiel had wept for them then, and he wept for them now as he stood on the outskirts of the town, watching the sun dip below the jagged peaks. He clutched his Bible tightly, the pages worn thin from years of use. The words of the prophet Isaiah burned in his mind: "They have forsaken the Lord, they have despised the Holy One of Israel, they are utterly estranged" (Isaiah 1:4).
The town's obsession had grown darker over the years. It began with neglect—children left unfed while dogs feasted on roasted lamb. Then came the abandonment—elders cast out of their homes to make room for kennels. And now, it had come to this: a ritual, performed under the light of the full moon, where the townsfolk would gather in the square and offer sacrifices to their canine overlords.
Ezekiel had seen it with his own eyes. He had watched as they led a young boy—no older than twelve—to the center of the square, his hands bound, his face pale with terror. The boy's mother had stood by, her eyes gleaming with pride as the high priest of the hounds raised a knife to the sky. The dogs had howled, a sound so piercing it seemed to split the heavens.
But Ezekiel had intervened. He had rushed forward, his voice thundering like the wrath of God, and snatched the boy from the altar. The townsfolk had turned on him, their eyes wild, their teeth bared like the beasts they worshipped. He had barely escaped with his life, the boy clinging to him as they fled into the woods.
Now, as he stood on the edge of the town, Ezekiel knew he could not let this continue. He had tried reasoning with them, pleading with them, but they were beyond reason. They had become as the dogs they loved—feral, unfeeling, devoid of the divine spark that made them human.
He opened his Bible to the book of Jeremiah and read aloud, his voice trembling with righteous fury: "Be appalled, O heavens, at this; be shocked, be utterly desolate, declares the Lord, for My people have committed two evils: they have forsaken Me, the fountain of living waters, and hewed out cisterns for themselves, broken cisterns that can hold no water" (Jeremiah 2:12-13).
The wind howled in response, carrying with it the stench of decay. Ezekiel knew what he had to do. He would return to the town, not as a preacher, but as a prophet. He would call down the judgment of God upon Sheol's Hollow, even if it cost him his life.
That night, under the cover of darkness, Ezekiel made his way back to the town square. The air was thick with the scent of blood and burnt offerings. The townsfolk were gathered once more, their faces illuminated by the flickering light of torches. In the center of the square stood a massive statue of a dog, its eyes glowing like embers.
Ezekiel stepped into the light, his Bible raised high. The townsfolk turned to him, their eyes narrowing with hatred. The dogs began to growl, their hackles raised.
"You have forsaken the Lord!" Ezekiel cried, his voice echoing through the square. "You have turned your backs on the One who formed you in His image and have worshipped the works of your own hands! Repent, lest the wrath of God consume you!"
The high priest of the hounds stepped forward, his face twisted with rage. "You are not welcome here, preacher," he spat. "This is our town, and these are our gods. Leave now, or you will join the sacrifices."
Ezekiel did not flinch. He opened his Bible once more and read from the book of Deuteronomy: "You shall not bow down to them or serve them; for I the Lord your God am a jealous God, visiting the iniquity of the fathers on the children to the third and fourth generation of those who hate Me" (Deuteronomy 5:9).
The high priest laughed, a sound as cold as the grave. "Your God is weak," he said. "He does not protect. He does not provide. But our gods do. They are strong. They are loyal."
Ezekiel's eyes blazed with holy fire. "Then let your gods save you," he said, his voice low and steady. "For the Lord has spoken: 'I will bring disaster on this people, the fruit of their devices, because they have not paid attention to My words; and as for My law, they have rejected it'" (Jeremiah 6:19).
As the words left his lips, the ground beneath the square began to tremble. The torches flickered and died, plunging the square into darkness. The dogs howled in terror, their barks turning to whimpers. The townsfolk screamed, their voices mingling with the sound of crumbling stone.
Ezekiel stood firm, his eyes fixed on the heavens. "The Lord is my shepherd," he whispered, "I shall not want" (Psalm 23:1).
And then, with a sound like the roar of a thousand winds, the earth opened up and swallowed the town whole. The statue of the dog toppled into the abyss, its glowing eyes extinguished. The townsfolk and their hounds were consumed, their cries silenced in an instant.
When the dust settled, Ezekiel stood alone on the edge of the abyss, his Bible still clutched in his hands. The valley was quiet now, the air clean and pure. He knelt and prayed, his tears falling onto the pages of the holy book.
"Forgive them, Father," he whispered, "for they knew not what they did" (Luke 23:34).
And as the sun rose over the valley, casting its light on the ruins of Sheol's Hollow, Ezekiel turned and walked away, his heart heavy but his spirit unbroken. For he knew that the Lord had judged the town, and His justice was perfect.
But in the depths of the abyss, where the town had once stood, a faint howling could still be heard—a reminder of the price of forsaking the image of God.
