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It is a dark and eerie night; the sort of night that by all rights should be stormy. The sort of night that feels like a storm in the brewing, or perhaps a storm already underway — even if it so happens that the sky is currently clear, the wind ominously absent.
The moon in that cloudless sky is full tonight, its pale and spectral glimmer impossible to escape yet still too faint to effectively illuminate the dim landscape below. It is a night and a moon that suggest the accumulated nightmares of millennia; the ghosts and bogeymen of lore and legend; grim, lurking terrors, unspeakable horrors, and monsters of the highest — and lowest — order.
One such creature is abroad tonight.
Hear it coming now, racing through the shadows at its master’s summons. Panting breath, pounding claws, chains rattling about its throat. Were it not the dead of night, you could more easily see its teeth and slaver, and the insatiable hunger visible in the red glow of its hellish eyes.
This is a beast that will devour bones… and when every scrap is demolished, the last crumbs consumed, it will still want more.
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Drawn irresistibly out by the sounds drifting through your open window — and perhaps drawn also by some sixth sense, honed through decades of being the sole figure standing between your homeland and the unremitting forces of destruction — you stand just outside your doorway, petrified on the porch, staring out into the moonlit dark.
You should, you know, go back inside. It is late, much too late, and if your wife awakens she will notice your absence from the bed. Nothing good can come of being out on this night; this, you know beyond a doubt. And after far too many failed attempts, even you have to admit (to yourself if to no one else) there is little within your power that can be done to stop this particular monster… and, worse still, nothing you can do to thwart its equally monstrous master.
Not, of course, that this means you will ever stop trying. If you give up, then all hope is lost. For you know that none other can hope to arise to take your place.
And perhaps this is what keeps you standing, helpless and transfixed, on the doorstep. It is nothing less than your duty to stand guard. Of course, you dare not proceed forward, off your property, lest you risk an actual encounter with the monsters at large. In the light of day, you would certainly do exactly that. But not at this hour.
After all, you can hardly see where you’re going. Who knows what you might step in? You shudder at the thought of cowpats — or worse! — on your bedroom slippers.
But you stand, and listen, and watch, and take careful mental notes.
The Tadfield Advertiser will hear about this.
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“C’mere, boy!” Adam shouts, heedless of the sleepy Tadfield houses all around him and equally heedless of R.P. Tyler standing glaring from a nearby porch.
As usual, Dog comes willingly at the call, tail wagging and collar jingling. He’s drooling a little, having picked up on the now-familiar and much-beloved scent emanating from his master’s pocket. He’s already eaten five peanut butter bone treats in the past five minutes. If he obeys well enough and tilts his head adorably enough, though, he has learned from experience that he may well be able to get more.
They almost certainly aren’t allowed to be out this late. On the other hand, Adam didn’t ask his parents for permission, which means they didn’t specifically tell him no.
Besides, it’s the last full moon of summer. School starts next Monday. They have to make the most of it while they still can.
In the spirit of mischief and the self-perceived invulnerability of successfully breaking curfew, Adam tosses off a cheerful wave at the outraged Mr. Tyler, then returns his attention to Dog.
“No more treats,” Adam says sternly, rubbing the inside-out ear with unabashed affection. “You’ve had enough already. An’ you already had your dinner. An’ half of mine. You’re so little, you can’t still be hungry.”
Dog tilts his head, very, very adorably.
Adam hesitates.
Dog stares soulfully up at him, yearning canine eyes flickering between brown and red.
He may be an Antichrist with a monstrous Hellhound at his beck and call, but Adam is also an eleven-year-old boy who is a hopeless pushover for his pedigree mongrel’s puppy dog eyes… not to mention, being in the middle of a growth spurt, no stranger himself to insatiable hunger. So he sighs, grins, and fishes into his pocket for yet another peanut butter bone.
Dog’s tail-wagging intensifies.
They stroll on through the streets of Tadfield: a boy and his dog, monsters of the night.