The Eve of the Hound

IT'S A DREAM

Margaret told herself frantically as she moved onward as though commanded by a mind not her own. One step at a time. Flowing as though floating. Her eyes darting from side to side to seek help. It's a dream, she told herself frantically, but she knew it was not.

Then, quite suddenly, there was a shape before her. She squinted through the treacherous moonlight to make out its contours, cast away its shadows—and she saw the muzzle of the Hound.

Not as large as she feared, nor as ghostly. A solid, real mass, ready to pounce and strike. And claw her to death, as it had killed Amanda.

Margaret tried to run, but couldn't. She brushed a hand over her tears, blinked.

The Hound was gone.

And in its place a man now stood…