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There beyond a veil of newborn leaves waited dark, wild eyes over blooded teeth.
The creature—not a deer, but I told myself I was drunk, spooked and had taken a bad angle—tore off toward the iron gates of the orchard. I glimpsed a second flash of ivory gaining ground behind it, then I too was sprinting—for my house—hugging Igor tight.
Howls exploded through the forest. A tremendous canine shape bounded through the strip of woods separating my house from the Vilkas property. It headed after the ‘deer’, but all the money in the world couldn’t make me run across the dark side of the house to the front lawn. I scrambled onto the deck, past the grill, chairs, table and faded umbrella.
The slider was locked. Of course. I’d checked after the sheriff had left.
Helpless and yelling for Lisa, I pounded the glass. Her shadow moved from the kitchen to the living room. Still on the phone, she lifted a finger. The motion detector finally clicked on, bathing Igor and me in flickering incandescence.
Hissing, the cat battled to flip back toward the woods.
The hair on the back of my neck prickled. I turned.
The birdfeeder stood illuminated in the thinnest ghost of light. All around, possessing the tricksome glimmer of Stygian gold, emerged pair after pair of reflective eyes. Limbs, tails and indistinct blurs of fang darted in and out of view in angry stride, as if the dewy grass marked the edge of hallowed ground. Whatever they were they watched, pacing, growling, snapping, and then their heads turned toward the wooded depths.
A hush fell over the crickets beneath the deck. I pressed my back into the door, slapping my palm against the glass, praying Lisa would hurry.
From out of the darkness stretched a hideous, hairy hand with jaundiced nails and elongated joints. It twisted at the wrist, and one long finger beckoned me into the night.
The slider whipped open. Screaming, I fell through backward and tossed Igor deeper into the house, far enough from the door to drag it shut.
Lisa sprang back. “Jesus Christ! What the hell happened?"
I locked the slider and pulled the curtains across. Igor leaped into the windowsill by the couch. I shooed her and closed those curtains too, but not without glancing outside. With the glare of the lamp and overheads, the space beyond the birdfeeder possessed all the peaceful innocence of a black hole.
Faint, I pressed two fingers to my rapid pulse. “There's someone in the woods.”
“Yeah, the scary ass vixen.”
“A person.” I moved window to window, re-checking locks and drawing curtains.
Incredulous, Lisa put a hand on her hip. “Really don’t want to go drinking, do you?”
“No. I mean, it’s not that.” Tangling my fingers in Igor’s fur, I took a calming breath and counted to ten. Best not to come across as a lunatic. “I saw this hand reaching out for me at the birdfeeder. And, I don’t know, a pack of German shepherds?”
“Or a gnarly branch and the vixen’s cubs. Or teenagers howling at the moon again.”
“That was Halloween. Who’d be out on the trails tonight?”
“We weren’t the first pair of dumbasses to stagger through Slaughterhouse drinking beer and smashing bottles. How far are the factory ruins if you access the trailhead from the bottom of our road, two and a half miles? Kim’s kid is what, seventeen? His brain’s reached the immortal age of ‘scare first, consider the consequences from the comfort of your hospital bed.’”
“I’m seriously considering calling the cops.” I flopped on the couch to catch my breath.
Lisa flopped beside me. “So, no drink?”
“Lisa!”
“Fine, fine. Do what you want. If you’re this stressed about a couple kids wandering the woods, go ahead, Grandma Davins.” She pulled off her windbreaker. “I’m setting my alarm for 4AM, but I’ll be up rethinking my wardrobe if you wanna chat.”
Fifteen minutes later, Lisa was upstairs and back on her phone. Samson twined about my legs as I slumped at the kitchen table waiting for the tea kettle's whistle, coffee abandoned beside the sink. Whenever I closed my eyes, the monstrous hand returned.
Knuckles coated in mud and coarse fur brushed my cheek. As the caress turned against my throat and the rough pad of its palm squeezed down, I imagined a tongue unused to speech navigating its way around both my ear and name.
Freaking painting had activated my imagination in a way I’d never experienced before. Disgusted with myself, I retrieved the sheriff’s card. Dialing the black inked number, I couldn’t help but think it was in no one’s best interest to set foot inside in those woods tonight.
“Harlowe.”
“’Evening, sheriff. It’s Marcy Davins.” I paused, suddenly certain the hand belonged to Kim’s kid in a wolf suit, but as the sheriff spoke I cut him off with a quick, “I’ve seen something.”
