Moonlit Malady

*This story features elements of dread, horror, mild gore, and adult language*

“The damn dog got out,” Bill muttered to himself, noticing the back door ajar, allowing the frigid night air to invade his kitchen. Fall nights were merciless in the northern mountains of Utah, and Bill wasn’t about to let the sonabitch Winston inflate his heating bill just to chase another squirrel and get those prickleys—Bill's term for burrs—tangled in his fur. Snatching his coat from the arm of the couch, he shot his wife a terse explanation and stormed out, slamming the door with a resounding thud that reverberated through the house. Whoever left the door open needed a reminder that it was Bill who had to venture out into the cold to retrieve the runaway dog. Muttering curses under his breath, Bill whipped out his phone and shook it twice, activating the flashlight. The beam pierced the night, illuminating the frost-laden ground and the shadowy trees of the woods just beyond his backyard.

Bill, a 32-year-old man, could scarcely admit even to himself that he was still at least a little timid of dark places, especially the woods behind his house. Too many pranks during his Boy Scout years and those nerve-wracking camping trips had turned him into an avid hater of venturing anywhere near the forest. His wife, however, adored the quaint town of Elmer and would be part of the statistic that says most people only move about 18 miles from their hometown. These were the thoughts Bill clung to as he neared the edge of the woods, deliberately ignoring the unsettling silence that enveloped him.

Bill stopped about ten feet from the dense line of trees marking the woods’ edge. “Winston!” he called into the underbrush. Nothing. Not even the familiar patter of Winston’s big Irish Setter paws in the distance. Damn dog's gone farther than usual, Bill thought. His right hand tightened around his phone as he took a few steps closer. “WINSTON!” he bellowed, louder this time, likely waking old Ruthie Diamond two doors down. Still, no sign of Winston. Dammit all to hell. As Bill stepped into the trees, he noticed that, for once, he was only thinking his curses instead of voicing them aloud—a habit his therapist had urged him to adopt. Internalize your thoughts first, she'd said. Whatever the hell that means. Let Doctor Dingus come fetch the dog then. Bill grudgingly acknowledged that his silence was born more from fear than adherence to his therapist’s advice.

Bill stepped onto the woodchip path he had grudgingly constructed for his wife and kids, leading about fifty feet into the woods. Beyond that, the ground sloped gradually into a gully—a deep ravine about ten feet wide at the bottom, with steep hills flanking either side. The gully’s expanse was the only break in the dense forest canopy for as far as Bill could see, the white birch trees parting to reveal a starlit sky. He walked briskly; fear or no fear, Bill wanted to get this over with and return home. As he neared the drop into the gully, shining his light ahead, his stomach suddenly felt fifty times heavier, his neck prickling with goosebumps.

He hated these woods, absolutely hated them. But as much as he despised Winston’s escapes into the underbrush, Bill loathed even more the thought of disappointing his six-year-old daughter with news that Winston had run off—or worse, had been found dead in the woods she loved so much. Determined to avoid that heartbreaking conversation, he pressed on, wishing his phone's flashlight could somehow turn the dark, eerie expanse into daylight.

Bill made it to the top of the gully wall and shone his flashlight toward the bottom, sweeping the beam from left to right and back again, slower on the return pass. No sign of Winston. Frustration bubbled up; in previous chases, he usually found Winston at the bottom of the gully, either drinking from a small pool of water or inexplicably rolling in the grass. Bill forced his voice into a careful exclamation, not quite a shout: “Winston? Winston!” Silence. Even if Winston had wandered to the other side of the gully, he would typically come running at Bill’s call, his paws pattering down the slope. Bill’s stomach tightened with unease—this time, Winston was nowhere to be found.

Bill realized then that the woods were eerily silent. The dense trees seemed to swallow any sound, which was what he hated most about being out here at night. The only noise was the deafening beat of his own heart, his shaky breath, and the rustling of leaves beneath his work boots. Frustrated and terrified, Bill began to side-step into the gully, carefully placing one foot in front of the other. His phone's flashlight cast erratic beams of light across the gully floor as he descended. After what felt like an eternity, he reached the bottom. Stupid Winston, what the hell, Bill cursed under his breath.

He felt like a fly ensnared in a spider’s colossal web: acutely aware of something larger and more sinister than himself lurking in the shadows, ready to eat him up and shit him out without a second thought. Why am I thinking like this? Bill questioned, trying to rationalize away his escalating fear. The woods of Elmer hardly ever saw bobcats or cougars; such sightings were rare, and typically resulted in a startled forest cat scampering away. Yet, despite his attempts at reassurance, a warning bell went off in Bill's mind...loud. Something primal stirred within him, a visceral awareness that he was not alone in the darkness. Against his will, his feet froze, refusing to move. Bill, his lungs almost convulsing from his efforts to quiet his breathing, felt his stomach churn with dread. Then, abruptly, his phone died. The flashlight flickered out, plunging him into utter darkness.

"Shit!" Bill whispered, frantically turning his phone over to confirm his fear. The little cog on the screen suddenly disappeared, and the screen went pitch black. Panic surged within him. He looked up and felt a flicker of relief as he saw the full moon casting its eerie glow across the open expanse of the gully, illuminating the leaves and pine needles strewn across the forest floor. But up above, 30 feet higher, the trees on either side of the gully blocked out that precious light, shrouding the 50-foot stretch back to his backyard in impenetrable darkness. His lifeline seemed impossibly distant.

His adrenaline surged, amplifying that primal intuition: There is something on the other side of the gully. Bill's gaze fixated on the top of the ravine where his instincts screamed danger. After what felt like an eternity, he barely whispered, “Winston?”

The forest remained eerily silent, offering no response to Bill's call. Then, suddenly, from his right and up into the mouth of the gully, the unmistakable rustling of Winston’s paws echoed loudly. Bill didn’t know it was possible to actually piss yourself from fear, but now he had first-hand experience. He felt his legs weaken, threatening to give way beneath him. With a trembling gasp, he dropped to his knees, relief flooding through him at the sound of Winston's approach. Placing his hands on his knees, Bill found a semblance of comfort in Winston's presence, his breath coming in ragged wheezes as he teetered on the edge of a panic attack. He looked up as Winston drew nearer.

“I swear, Winston, if it weren’t for Mazie back home, you’d have been left here!” Bill half laughed, half cried, his emotions swirling in a tumultuous mix of relief and concern. He then noticed Winston was limping, and upon closer inspection, he saw blood marring the ankle of Winston’s front left leg, the red staining difficult to discern against his fur. Winston whimpered as he made his way to Bill’s outstretched hands. Bill knelt down and examined the injured paw quickly. In that moment, he felt a surge of sympathy wash over him. Dog truly was man’s best friend and Bill suddenly acted like he hadn’t outburst at his wife when she asked what the matter was fifteen minutes earlier. 

Winston had clearly been bitten by something more formidable than the squirrels he often chased. Bill suspected raccoons or perhaps even a wolf. The blood had crusted over the wound, indicating that the bleeding had thankfully stopped. Regardless, it was evident that Winston wouldn’t be able to walk back home without further injuring himself. Quietly and briskly, Bill scooped him up in his arms, mentally bracing himself for the inevitable struggle as Winston typically resisted being picked up. However, to Bill’s surprise, Winston surrendered immediately, nestling into his arms as if sensing the urgency of the situation.

Bill hadn’t anticipated the challenge of scaling the thirty-foot gully wall, but he knew he had to do it. His EOS Fitness membership was about to come in handy. With determination, he reached the bottom of the wall and dug his work boots into the dirt, beginning the arduous ascent. Winston whined softly in his arms.

“Hold on, buddy. We’ll be there soon,” Bill reassured Winston, his voice strained with effort.

They finally breached the top of the hill, and Bill paused to catch his breath, feeling the burn in his muscles from the strenuous climb. He took a moment to rest before mustering the strength to traverse the remaining fifty feet back to safety.

“Mazie sure is gonna be happy to-”

The primal fear surged back, hitting him like a freight train and sending waves of nausea crashing over him. His neck tingled again, the familiar sensation of dread gripping him once more. He had brushed aside that instinct earlier when it warned him of something on the opposite gully wall. Now, it whispered: Something is at the bottom of the gully. Bill didn’t even need to turn around to know it was there. It was like being back in his parents' old creaky house as a kid, asked to turn off the basement light. Don’t look back. Just turn it off and sprint up the stairs.

Bill quickened his pace along the wood chip path, breaking into a half-jog. Winston whimpered loudly now, and Bill hated that this sudden primal knowledge of being hunted was confirmed by Winston’s audible fear.

Over the cacophony of his own boots pounding against the ground and his ragged breathing, Bill heard the unmistakable sound of leaves rustling down in the gully floor. The noise was rapidly approaching, making its way towards the wall he had just climbed, scrambling up the thirty feet of weeds and grass with frightening speed.

“Holy shit!” Bill yelled, adrenaline surging through his veins as he broke into a full sprint for the final 25 feet to the edge of the woods, Winston's weight in his arms feeling as light as a feather. Winston’s muffled whines quickly escalated into deafening barks, echoing through the still night air.

As Bill raced towards the edge of the woods, panic gripped him like a vice. The relentless pursuit seemed to close in with each desperate stride, the cacophony of rustling leaves and snapping twigs growing louder and more menacing. His chest constricted with fear, every breath ragged and labored. In the suffocating darkness, he swore he heard a low growl, a sinister sound that sent a chill down his spine. It definitely didn’t come from Winston. The realization settled over him like a suffocating blanket—there was no escape, no hope of outrunning whatever hunted him in the night. With a sinking heart, Bill stumbled forward, resigned to his fate as the unseen terror drew ever closer, its presence looming ominously in the shadows.

Bill burst into the backyard, his heart pounding in his ears as he practically screamed for his life. He stumbled, catching himself and Winston, and dashed the rest of the way to the back door. His trembling hand fumbled for the doorknob, slick with sweat, and he almost tumbled into the kitchen face-first as he barged inside. Candace, his wife, hurried into the room, her flushed face a mix of concern and confusion at the sight of Bill's wild-eyed panic.

"What the hell is going on?" Candace cried as she entered the kitchen, her voice laced with alarm. Bill brushed past her into the living room, his movements urgent yet careful as he placed Winston on the couch. Turning back to his wife, sweat rolling down the sides of his temples, he uttered with exasperation, "The next pet will be a damn goldfish!"

*******************************

Mazie groggily tumbled out of her bed, the Spider Gwen sheets rumpled beneath her. She dreamily acknowledged her fondness for those sheets; they were all she had wanted for her 6th birthday last spring. With sleepy steps, she made her way to the dresser, her eyes still heavy with sleep. Stretching out her arm, she reached for her water cup, which she always kept nearby for nighttime thirsts. Mazie lifted the cup to her lips, only to be saddened by the realization that it was empty.

Mazie opened her bedroom door with practiced caution, mindful of the creaking handle that could easily wake her baby brother. Weary yet determined, she shuffled her way down the hallway towards the kitchen. Retrieving the stepping stool from its place under the sink, she propped it up against the counter, positioned her glass beneath the faucet, and turned the handle. As the water flowed into her glass, she couldn't help but glance over to where Winston's bed lay against the wall, a pang of concern tugging at her tired heart.

“Winston?"

Winston stood there, rigid on all fours, his tail hanging straight down. Shouldn’t he be sleeping? Mazie placed her cup on the counter, carefully descended from the stepping stool, and took a hesitant step towards Winston. His eyes blazed like hot coals.

Winston growled.