Magnificent, if there were ever a word to capture the grandness of this place—this estate of well-lit rooms, tucked away into the heart of our quarter, and embanked by an obscured lake. One could always see this mansion’s novel lights from down the road. With every breath, the estate formed the soul of our community; everyone had some connection buried in the place. 

The community spent Saturday nights in eager anticipation of the Sunday dog races at Mr. Winthrop’s estate, like bored fathers itching to venture out onto golf greens. The rich would flock to their neighbour’s manors, flooding the streets and expensive parlour tiles with laughter and puddles of champagne. Automobiles would race up and down the road, drowning the night air with thundering engines: my ebullient brother and neighbouring men with their shiny toys. So loud were these parties that they’d drown the distant howling of dogs somewhere beyond the trees. 

“Come on—we’ll be late!” My brother, Theodore, stepped from our car without a glance at the chauffeur. 

Golden light spilled from the estate’s windows, cutting through the early morning darkness that cloaked the terrace. It caught on the cornerstones of my diamond necklace, inherited from my mother, as I slipped from the limo, heels skirting across damp pavement. 

On the sidewalk, Theodore rocked on his heels. He regarded the estate with the eagerness of a child eyeing sweets, the light washing his face a supple silk. Meanwhile, I struggled out of the car in my dress. You wouldn’t believe he was the older of us. 

“There they are!” he beamed. 

Two lavishly dressed figures had appeared atop the steps. Mr. Lowell, a paunchy little man in a fresh houndstooth coat, lazed on his cane, his usual hounds trailing behind him on diamond leashes. He was the respected businessman of our quarter, renowned for dog-breeding and taxes—an odd pair. Since Mr. Winthrop’s arrival, Mr. Lowell had made himself thoroughly responsible for supplying the estate with its dogs. For the races, of course. 

Yet, Mr. Lowell was overshadowed by the tall man to his left: Mr. Winthrop, the proprietor of the grand estate—though he certainly didn’t look it. With his simple suits and easy talk, you’d think him the mailman. Yet the moment he’d tip his cap and flash his magnificent blues, a light would catch in their depths like a lone match dropped into a sinking sea. No one could doubt his excellence after witnessing that. 

“You’re late, Mr. Byrd—I was about to steal your wager on the race!” 

Theodore raced up to join them. Disgruntled, I brushed the hem of my skirt and carried myself after him. Like any proper woman. 

“You must be Dorothy.” 

I staggered when Mr. Winthrop unexpectedly turned to me. 

“I’m pleased you could make it.” He offered me his arm, gesturing to the resplendently lit estate. “Now, if you’d watch your step….” 

We’d only made one collective pivot towards the doors when a distant whistle flared from the back fields. A sign that the races were upon us. 

Unable to contain himself any longer, my brother shot for the doors. Theodore did not like to wait—and he certainly hated being last—but Mr. Lowell jerked him back by his belt buckle so Mr. Winthrop could lead. In our quarter, it was only etiquette that the most revered among us led the way. 

We stepped into his estate, which was filled with what could be starlight. It astonished me. Lights shone from every corner: odd, squiggly lamps sat on tables, and chandeliers dripped from every hall’s ceiling, washing the mansion’s interior and carved greyhound decals in colour.

“This was bare until I had the wiring fixed into the bones of this place.” Mr. Winthrop flashed his teeth. “They give an appealing hue.” 

My eyes trailed the many wires. Twisting away from fixtures and lamps, they disappeared into walls or crept discreetly along baseboards, drinking up power. 

“Where does all of the electricity come from?” 

He shrugged. “Wherever the power lines go.” 

* 

I hadn’t known what to expect, but this far surpassed anything I’d have conjured up. 

Even in the early hours of the morning, the back terrace was alive with clusters of people gathered under the hazy track lights. Their jewels flashed beneath fur coats, and their prized dogs with lustrous nails and gleaming pelts sat in competition by the rails, perfection bred into their bones. 

In the distance, the old lake blew fog from its shores. Further on, a dim light beckoned from the Minister’s manor. It was an hour’s drive up the shore, but from here, you could almost see its impression along the coast. Its constant lights appeared nearly a decade ago, rumoured to come from the manor of an unmatched politician living in quiet, leisurely retirement. It was there that the most celebrated people of our society withdrew after a lifetime of accomplishment. My mother and father had received their invitations years ago.

Now that we’d arrived, Mr. Winthrop sat, followed by the others, at our table nearest to the track. His eyes—like everyone’s—saw only the course: its flashy ribbons and raked sand. We hardly took notice of the quiet weeds festering along its bottom rails. 

Just then, the staff led twelve hounds onto the pitch. They differed from the pooches arranged on the grass: wild and mangy, choking on collars and biting the help. Each indistinguishable from the last, as if they shared but one simultaneous and violent thought. 

“My bet’s on Beauty.” Theodore discarded the playbill with the languor of a man ordering the soup of the day. 

I would have never noticed her until my brother pointed to her docile body hidden behind the mammoth forms of other hounds. She was so unlike them. Beauty did not yank against her collar; she did not stir the dust at her feet. I saw only steady breaths from her flank and the wise gleam in her eyes. 

My brother was one to follow his whims. Even in car races just down the road, he always picked his turns at random, lacking the foresight to picture how they would play out. Today, he felt emboldened to pick a winning hound by name without so much as a glance at the dogs. I expected my brother to choose another savage hound—something Beauty was not. 

Mr. Lowell balked through his fat lips. “Beauty? Pah! There’s no winning against Monty; that’s a dog with a mean bite.” 

With only the slightest reservation, I interjected: “What happens to the winner?” 

“There’ll be another track, of course.” 

Wrrrrrrrrrrrt! 

I fell short of a reply when the whistle blew. The staff unclasped their dog’s leashes, and they shot free. Taken by the frenzy, our leaping lungs churned the air—their manic breaths and flaring eyes spreading like a wild disease. They had a gluttonous need to run, while the end forever stretched further from their noses. How would they know they were running in circles?

Ignorant of the wreck lurking beyond the bend, this felt silly to me. 

A small dog was the first to go. 

Twitching in delirium, it darted into its neighbour’s lane—too intoxicated by the taste of victory to watch for the track’s treacherous unfoldings. In an instant, the dog was sucked beneath another’s feet. They’d collided in a deadly tangle of dust and limbs. Neither would get up. 

My gloved hand flew to my mouth. My blood stilled. Already, the staff had slipped through the barred fence and onto churned sand, and were dragging the bodies away in their sewn potato sacks. 

They raked the bloodied sand. Spotless, as if nothing had happened. The cheers never stopped. I questioned if I had even witnessed the wreck, slowly lowering my hand to my lap. I must have imagined it. These people were far too pleased to have witnessed death. 

Meanwhile, three dogs pulled ahead—Monty, Beauty, Duke—blazing a path in the sand for tired dogs to fill. Monty saw their weakness and bared his hungry fangs. 

The brute peeled away to snip at the heels of a lagging mutt—insanity burning behind his eyes. He drove the lazy hound sideways into flashing rails. It took two racers with it; their eyes too narrowly kept on their own lanes to avoid the surrounding violence. They, too, left the race in sacks. 

Other dogs chose to run themselves off the track, their terrified cries echoing as they dove for the rails. Monty charged for the fence, but the massive hound, Duke, was faster. He slammed Monty onto the sand. The whimpering mutts slipped through to freedom, but never got far. 

The staff trailed after them into the trees, guns on their hips. 

BANG! 

BANG! 

Gunshots rang out minutes later, and the men reappeared, clinging to laden sacks. My eyes widened at the finality of the scene.

There was no dismissing such a blatant display. Yet the crowd’s raucous cheering never ebbed. Their cries exploded, drowning any capacity for rational thought. 

A dog’s fear crystallized in my mind; desperation sewn like pins to the cushion of my seat. I saw myself in those dogs, and my future in their sacks. Unlike them, I could afford to watch. 

Of the three remaining hounds, Duke and Monty swerved like maniacal cars—reminding me of a familiar scene from just last night. I’d watched my brother and his friend slide into their shiny racing cars from under the glow of streetlights, as I did every Saturday night. It was supposed to be a harmless thing, but with one careless swerve, Theodore nearly penciled into his friend’s car. He had shrugged off the few cat-scratches he’d left on their automobile, insisting his friend simply finish the race. But his friend was not so insouciant; I had never seen a fellow so prepared to kill. 

The excitement dropped from the air like a sour cloud—but soon the boys resumed racing, and the energy picked up again. There were many moments like these when they raced: flashing eyes, fisted hands, flaring nostrils. I could have mistaken them for hounds. But they were only young men; they vied for victory—not blood. What harm could they do? However, even beneath Monty’s tyrannical ways, there lived the same throbbing hunger for triumph. I wondered how little it would take to strip the men bare of the thin layer of civility to which they clung. 

Beauty wrenched herself from the bloodshed. This dog seemed to understand that where there was blood, Death’s trap followed. She flew like a bird escaping the nest, and some inexplicable part of me needed to see her do it—an idealist’s will despite the odds. 

The dogs hurtled after one another. Monty’s explosive strength fought to overtake Beauty, but Duke was determined to shove himself in the way of every strike. Despite his valour, it only took one mistaken charge for his fire to be snuffed. It had been so laughably easy for Monty to catch the dog by its neck, and he immediately snapped it—ensuring that the noble Duke would never rise again. 

Standing over the body, blood dripped from his muzzle. The brute’s gaze fetched Beauty from the vast space between them. I felt the cruel firestorm of his eyes reflected in the crowd’s distinguished applause. 

For once, I saw no difference between man and dog.

A sea of fur coats smothered me with their uncanny resemblance to the wiry hound pelts, as if their wearers had scraped them from the dogs’ very backs. The spectators’ jewel-studded dogs looked more like intricate, porcelain figures displayed at the edges of the track—decorating the gory spread of mangy hounds hurtling towards an unviable end. The finish line was nothing but a lie staring them in the face at every turn. 

Gripping my armrests, I bore witness to the crowd’s dismissal: Mr. Lowell’s wicked grin and Theodore’s overeager one. I watched, helpless, as my brother was swallowed into the crowd’s shadow, bearing their terrible likeness as he cheered for the slaughter. Only Mr. Winthrop seemed remotely aware of the track’s brutal display. The flash of his eyes. A premeditated curl to his lips. Still, he said nothing. 

The impressive hues that once engulfed the track had receded, leaving me trapped within its sickened, grey bones. 

As Monty drew closer to Beauty, I saw Death run its shadow over her; its bated breaths on her heels; the taste of slaughter on its tongue. 

I watched him lunge. 

I watched her swerve. 

I watched Beauty fall, and Monty charge past, as her life bled out onto the sand. 

My world shrank to fit the reflection in her eyes. Some part of me thought that this would prompt Mr. Winthrop to raise his hand at last. To end this madness. 

But he never did. 

When Monty crossed the finish line, the air erupted. My brother was among the men who groaned, having lost their wagers. Others, like Mr. Lowell, grinned as they went to rip money from losing pockets. 

Deaf to them, my eyes glued to the greedy staff crawling onto the track like scavengers. I felt a hound’s madness descend upon me. Throwing myself onto the track, I wrestled the sacks from their hands and threw them to the sand. How deranged I must have looked. 

My knees hit the track beside Beauty’s body—and only with my tears did heads turn.

Women gave offended murmurs, as if my sorrow existed only as a devious grasp for attention. Yet my eyes were only for Beauty, so cold where warmth once stood. An improper grief flooded me. To the horrors I had witnessed, any pity or sorrow was mere decoration to an already spent fate. 

Footsteps stopped behind me. I turned my grimace to the figure. 

As sunlight dawned over the track, I recognized Mr. Winthrop with a sick churning in my stomach. In the daylight, stark without the estate’s flattering lamplight to paint them in effervescence, I now understood what the flashing of his blue eyes had truly been. They bore the unmistakable shadows of Monty’s madness to win. 

Guests stared at me, their faces properly lit. Their eyes were empty. Their lavish fur coats and besotted jewels were nothing but gaunt wrappings around withered corpses—the life picked from their bones. 

Mr. Winthrop offered a tissue. 

As he pulled me from the morbid scene, I laid my necklace over her body to resemble those beautiful hounds. Yet the necklace was no more than another collar.

Beyond me, I heard Monty’s strangled snarls being led away—they could have him. It was only another track that waited for him, anyway. 

We followed the guests towards the lit mansion. Mr. Winthrop and Mr. Lowell opted to forget my grief, listening to my brother complain of the sand in his shoes. Nothing would change. Tomorrow we would still practice ignorance as if it were our right. 

Nobody saw the staff scoop Beauty into their sacks and dump her into one of many loaded trucks, the words ‘Winthrop Disposal Company’ sprawled across its back gate. 

We knew this truck well; it drove by every day, belonging to the innocent maintenance man who came to work on our power lines. Often, we’d invite him in for tea, applauding the man’s service driving road to road, concerning himself with grunt work so we wouldn’t have to. 

We’d never considered the bodies in the back. 

Like a hungry beast, it descended into our quarter, making no stops—it never did on Sundays. It would follow the power lines to wind down the untravelled roads flanking the lake’s foggy shores, joined by dozens more just like it in neat rows. Towards the Minister’s manor like a funeral march.