Before we start this is story entry from a Contest I did a few years back that a person finally sent it in after all theses years. She was the only Entry so I figure to post her story. So Enjoy cause I found it Creepy AF.....
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The first thing Scott noticed when he woke up was the cold metal digging into his wrists. Not handcuffs—thicker, heavier, like something from a hardware store. His head throbbed, a dull ache pulsing behind his eyes as he tried to blink away the blurriness. Concrete floor. Unfinished walls. A single bare bulb swinging slightly overhead, casting jagged shadows.
Day 1:
"Morning, Princess," a woman's voice said, too cheerful for the damp basement air. Scott jerked his head up, chains rattling, and saw her perched on a wooden stool a few feet away. She was twirling something in her fingers—a leash, he realized, the clip glinting under the weak light. His stomach dropped when he noticed the collar around his own neck, the tag brushing against his bare chest as he struggled to sit up.
The woman—Natalie—tilted her head, studying him the way you'd examine a bug under glass. "You look confused," she said, tapping the side of her thigh. A high-pitched whine echoed from the shadows behind her, and Scott's breath hitched. It wasn't a dog. It was a recording, he realized, as the sound looped—the exact noise Princess had made when his tires crushed her ribs two months ago on Elm Street.
Scott's throat clicked when he tried to speak, his tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth. The collar dug deeper as he swallowed. "That was—that was an accident," he rasped, but Natalie's smile didn't waver. She stood abruptly, the stool screeching against concrete, and Scott flinched as she stepped closer. Her fingers traced the edge of the dog tag, lingering over the engraved name.
"You didn't even stop," she murmured. The recording of Princess' whine cut off abruptly, replaced by the sound of Natalie's boots pacing in a slow circle around him. "Just kept driving. Left her there like garbage." Scott's pulse hammered against the collar as her shadow stretched grotesquely across the wall, merging with his own trembling outline.
He gasped when something cold and wet pressed against his thigh—Natalie was dragging the leash's metal clip down his leg, leaving a thin trail of goosebumps. "I-I paid the fine," Scott stammered, twisting his wrists against the restraints. The chains clinked mockingly. "Sent flowers to your—" The words dissolved into a choked yelp as Natalie suddenly yanked the collar, forcing his head back to meet her dilated pupils.
"You paid," she repeated softly, reaching into her pocket. Scott barely registered the glint of the syringe before the needle pierced his thigh. A sharp burn, then warmth flooded his veins like sinking into a poisoned bath. His vision swam—Natalie's face fractured into grinning shards as she whispered, "Now you'll pay properly."
Day 2:
The next time he surfaced, the basement stank of antiseptic and something coppery. Scott tried to lift his hands—lighter, wrong—and screamed. The sound was too high, shredded at the edges. His fingers brushed unfamiliar curves where flatness should've been, the collar now snug against a throat that shouldn't exist. Chains clanked as he thrashed, the new weight on his chest swinging nauseatingly with each movement.
Natalie sat cross-legged on the floor, surgical gloves peeled off to reveal raw knuckles. She was flipping through a Polaroid stack—each snap of the shutter captured another stage of Scott's transformation. "You screamed so prettily under anesthesia," she mused, holding up a photo of glistening red muscle being stitched into new shapes. The basement lights caught the glint of a discarded scalpel near her boot.
Scott—no, she now—tried to scream again, but the drugs had left her throat ragged. The unfamiliar pitch of her own voice made her flinch. Her hands flew to the swollen curves of her chest, fingertips brushing sutures still weeping pink. The collar's tag jingled mockingly as she thrashed, chains biting into reshaped hips. "P-please," she sobbed, the word warping into something high and broken.
Natalie sighed dramatically and unfolded her legs, rising to tap the Polaroid against Scott's trembling cheekbone. "Still not getting it, are you?" She traced the fresh stitches crisscrossing his—*her*—abdomen with the edge of the photo. "This isn't about apologies." The Polaroid flipped around to show Scott's own face mid-scream, jaw forced wide around a purple gag. "This is about reconstruction."
A metallic clatter made Scott flinch—Natalie had kicked the scalpel closer, its blade still streaked with rusty smears. "You rebuild what you break," she said sweetly, crouching to yank the leash taut. The collar jerked Scott forward onto raw knees, the concrete scraping skin still tender from transformation. "Starting with names. Say it." The leash jerked again. "*Princess*."
But Scott you are far from over this little fun......By the end of the week I'll have my "Princess" back in my arms..........
Just then Natalie ran and stab the Syringe into Scott's neck again.
Day 3:
Scott's vision swam as the drugs took hold once more, her limbs feeling leaden and distant. The last thing she saw was Natalie's serene smile before everything dissolved into blackness. When consciousness returned, it came with a jolt of horror—her arms and legs were gone, replaced by grotesque approximations of canine limbs. Skin stretched taut over reconstructed joints, her hands and feet now stiff, paw-like appendages that twitched involuntarily against the cold concrete. She tried to scream, but all that came out was a strangled whimper.
Scrambling onto all fours, Scott's new limbs trembled beneath her, the unfamiliar musculature sending her sprawling face-first onto the floor. The collar jingled mockingly as she struggled to rise, her altered hips swaying unnaturally. "N-Natalie, please!" she begged, her voice cracking with terror. "You—you can't do this! I'm not—I'm not her!" But Natalie only watched from the corner, sipping coffee as if this were just another morning.
Natalie laugh and said well your limbs say otherwise!
Scott attempted to crawl backward, her reshaped paws scraping uselessly against the concrete as Natalie calmly set down her coffee mug. The sound of nails—*her* nails—clicking against the floor made Scott's stomach lurch. "Look at you," Natalie crooned, crouching to run a hand down Scott's surgically altered spine, fingers tracing the raised scars where skin had been stitched over foreign musculature. "Already moving like her."
Natalie made Scott do some test to make sure her new limbs are working like they are supposed to.
Scott's breath came in ragged pants as Natalie dragged a squeaky toy across the floor—a filthy pink elephant Princess had loved. Her body reacted before her mind could stop it, the new muscles twitching with predatory instinct. Horror flooded her as she realized she was chasing it, her stitched-on paws scrambling toward the toy with awful, jerky strides. The collar's tag jingled madly with each clumsy lunge. But its time to sleep again! Just like before another Syringe jam into her neck.
Day 4:
When she woke—if you could call this nightmare wakefulness—the basement smelled of iodine and wet dog, though there was no dog here. Just her. Her chest heaved against the concrete, the once-familiar weight of human breasts now replaced by rows of swollen, hairless teats that brushed the floor as she tried to stand. She didn't need to look down to know what else had changed—the throbbing ache between her legs told her everything. A high, keening whine escaped her throat as she twisted to see the raw, stitched mess of her new anatomy glistening under the basement lights.
Natalie was humming now, arranging something on a tray—a metal bowl filled with brown mush, a plastic water dish. The leash in her other hand jingled as she turned, her smile widening at Scott's frantic attempts to cover herself with paws that no longer functioned as hands. "Hungry?" Natalie cooed, tapping the bowl with a spoon. The sound triggered something primal—Scott's stomach growled despite herself, saliva pooling in a mouth that suddenly ached for the taste of whatever foul slurry awaited. The realization made her retch.
Scott ate the food with her still human head and face.
The mush tasted like wet cardboard and meat gone bad, but her altered throat convulsed greedily anyway, gulping down the slop with humiliating urgency. Natalie giggled as Scott's tongue—still human, still his—lapped desperately at the metal bowl, scraping it clean while tears streaked down his unchanged face. "Good girl," Natalie purred, ruffling what remained of Scott's human hair before abruptly grabbing a fistful and yanking his head back. The syringe glinted again. "But we're not done with your face."
Day 5:
Scott's skull felt like it had been split open and packed with hot coals. She tried to scream when she woke, but the sound that tore from her throat was a guttural yowl—her vocal cords vibrating all wrong. Her paws flew to her face and recoiled instantly; where her nose should have been was now a seeping, stitched-on muzzle, the skin stretched taut over unfamiliar cartilage. Her paws—brushed the floppy dog ears grafted onto her temples, the sutures puckering the flesh where human met canine. Panic seized her when she tried to speak, her new tongue lolling thick and useless behind sharpened teeth. "Nnngh—*Nat-lee*!" she garbled, drool spilling down her chin as she scrambled backward on all fours, the collar's tag jingling like a death knell.
Natalie emerged from the shadows holding a handheld mirror, her grin feral. "Almost there," she crooned, forcing the mirror into Scott's twitching paws. The reflection showed a nightmare: her forehead sloped unnaturally into the muzzle, her once-human eyes now wide and liquid-black like a dog's. The ears twitched involuntarily as she hyperventilated, her breath coming in wet, panting gasps. Natalie stroked the mangled hybrid of Scott's face with a latex-gloved hand, tracing the inflamed suture lines. "You're even prettier than Princess was," she murmured, pressing a kiss to Scott's trembling muzzle. "But we still need to fix... this." Her finger tapped Scott's unchanged forehead, where a fringe of human hair still clung stubbornly above the grafts.
Day 6:
The shock collar remote appeared in Natalie's other hand with a theatrical flourish. "Sit," she commanded, her voice syrupy sweet. Scott froze—human pride warring with animal terror—until the first jolt hit. Her body convulsed violently, paws scrabbling against concrete as electricity arced through her reconstructed nerves. She collapsed onto her haunches with a whimper, spine curved into perfect submission. Natalie rewarded her with a treat pressed against her stitched lips—a rancid scrap of raw liver that Scott's new taste buds craved. Her human mind recoiled even as her tongue lapped hungrily at Natalie's fingers.
Day 7:
The pink pills came hidden in chunks of sausage. Natalie would cradle Scott's—no, Princess'—muzzle after each dose, crooning as the drugs dissolved into her bloodstream. At first Scott fought them, spitting out the meat in frothy globs. But hunger won. By the third dose, she'd begun panting at the sound of the pill bottle shaking, her tail (oh god, tail) thumping involuntarily against the floor. Her thoughts grew syrupy, timelines blurring—had she always slept in this dog bed? The collar felt lighter now, or maybe her neck had thickened. She couldn't recall the multiplication tables anymore, but she knew the exact pitch of Natalie's "good girl" voice.
Day 8:
The basement walls lost their edges, softening into vague smears of gray. Princess (such a pretty name) lapped at her water bowl, marveling at how the ripples danced. Something nagged at her—a sharp memory of standing upright, of holding things with clever fingers—but it dissolved when Natalie scratched behind her ears. Her human face felt like a dream now, the last stubborn patches of skin vanishing under matted fur. She tried to speak once, but her tongue lolled heavy and useless. Better to whine instead—high and needy—until Natalie rewarded her with more of those delicious pink treats that made the world smell like bacon and safety.
Day 9:
The leash tightened around Princess' throat as Natalie led her up the basement stairs for the first time—*homecoming*. Her paws slipped on the wooden steps, claws clicking frantically until she found her footing. Sunlight! It burned her widened pupils, but oh, the smells—laundry soap and coffee grounds and the ghost of another dog's musk on the welcome mat. She nearly toppled over wagging her tail (hers now, hers) as Natalie knelt to clip a shiny new tag to her collar. "Princess," it read, because of course it did. The last whisper of Scott evaporated like morning dew when Natalie kissed her wet nose.
Princess barked—a sharp, joyous sound that startled them both—and Natalie laughed until tears streaked her cheeks. "Yes! Yes," she gasped, ruffling the thick fur around Princess' neck where sutures still itched beneath. The Border Collie markings had taken beautifully; no one would ever guess the black-and-white patches hid a thousand scars. Princess licked Natalie's wrist, tasting salt and satisfaction, and something inside her settled. No more struggling against the leash, no more human thoughts clotting her mind like spoiled milk. Just this: the warmth of Natalie's palm between her ears, the way her whole body vibrated when she heard "good girl."
Natalie led her to the backyard where Princess—*yes, Princess, always*—immediately buried her nose in the grass. Earthworms! Squirrel piss! A dead leaf that might be food! Her tail wagged hard enough to knock over a garden gnome as she careened between smells, paws sinking into soft soil. A distant voice (Scott's? But Scott was gone, wasn't he?) whispered you used to hate dirt, but Princess shook her head, sending the thought flying like a pesky flea. She rolled onto her back, legs cycling in the air, until Natalie's shadow fell over her. "Who's my perfect girl?" Natalie crooned, and Princess yipped, twisting upright to press her forehead against Natalie's knee.
The stainless steel bowl clattered onto the tile floor—kibble bouncing like tiny brown pebbles—and Princess' ears perked before her body even registered the sound. Her claws scrabbled frantically as she skidded toward the kitchen, drool already pooling between her teeth. The food tasted like heaven, like purpose, and she gulped it down in frantic mouthfuls, barely chewing. Natalie laughed, running fingers through the scruff of Princess' neck. "Slow down," she chided, but Princess barely heard her, too consumed by the ecstasy of an empty stomach being filled. The last kibble clung to her jowls until her pink tongue flicked out to retrieve it. Natalie's approving hum sent warmth blooming through her chest.
That night, Princess circled three times on the orthopedic dog bed (memory foam, because Natalie spoiled her) before collapsing with a contented sigh. Her dreams were smells: bacon grease, rabbit trails, Natalie's shampoo. Once, she startled awake—a half-remembered nightmare of standing upright, of hands—but Natalie's sleepy murmur of "shhh, good girl" dissolved the terror before it fully formed. Princess licked the salt from between Natalie's dangling fingers and slept until dawn, her paws twitching as she chased dream-squirrels.
By week's end, Princess had chewed through three nylon bones and ruined the patio cushions during a particularly enthusiastic digging spree. Natalie scolded her with laughter in her voice, holding up the shredded fabric as Princess cowered in mock guilt, belly exposed. "You're lucky you're cute," Natalie sighed, ruffling the fur between Princess' perked ears—the exact spot that made her hind leg thump uncontrollably. The last time Princess had tried to form human words (had that been yesterday? Last month?), it came out as a strangled howl that sent them both into giggling fits when the mailman jumped.
The vet visit was the first real test. Princess trembled in the waiting room, tail tucked between her legs as unfamiliar hands probed her stitches and checked her vitals. When the vet remarked on her uncanny resemblance to Natalie's late dog, Natalie's grip tightened imperceptibly on the leash. "Pure coincidence," she said, scratching the spot under Princess' collar where the skin grafts met original tissue. Princess licked her wrist in quiet conspiracy, her doggy heart swelling when Natalie slipped her an extra treat afterward—the pink kind that made everything soft and bright.
By month's end, Princess had her own Instagram account (@RealPrincessTheCollie) with 15K followers who adored her head-tilts and "talking" videos where Natalie "translated" her barks. Sometimes, late at night, Princess would stare at her reflection in the sliding glass door—the way her black-and-white fur perfectly hid the scars, how her dark eyes no longer held anything recognizably human. The memories came less frequently now, drowned out by the delicious rhythm of walks and belly rubs and the click-click of Natalie's camera. One evening, as Natalie painted her nails (pink, to match her collar), Princess realized she couldn't recall Scott's face anymore. The relief was so sudden she knocked over her water bowl in excitement.
Natalie didn't replace the welcome mat with Princess' name embroidered on it—not even when the old one frayed at the edges. Some things were too perfect to change. On rainy afternoons, Princess would press her muzzle against its faded letters, inhaling the ghost of gasoline and screeching tires from that day on Elm Street. The scent no longer made her flinch; it smelled like before, and before didn't matter anymore. What mattered was Natalie's fingers carding through her fur, the way she'd whisper "my good girl" into the velvety fold of one grafted ear, the pink pills that made everything warm and quiet and right.
The first time Princess caught a squirrel, Natalie framed its tiny skull in a glass display case next to Princess' old dog tag. The neighbors thought it was macabre, but Natalie would trace the engraving—*Scott A. Morrison, 1989-2023*—with her thumbnail whenever she thought Princess wasn't looking. Princess never told her she could read it upside down from her dog bed. Some secrets were better kept between a girl and her dog.