Page 4 of Blood Moon

“What do you see, girl?” he whispered, his eyes following the animal’s stare.

Thrusting the lantern out ahead of him, holding the Ruger at the ready, Isaac went through the gate and started toward the tree line. He’d only gone a few yards when he heard something moving in the brush, twigs and deadfall cracking beneath its feet. Saplings quivering. Bushes parting …

Isaac gasped when a dark shape burst from the woods. A massive beast. Twenty yards away. Low to the ground and moving fast.

Isaac blinked, wished for his glasses, not trusting his eyes. “Mein Gott.” My God.

He bent, lowered the lantern to the ground. The beast streaked toward him. “Shtobba!” he cried. Stop.

He raised the rifle. Tilting his head, he put his eye to the sight. Finger inside the guard. Hands shaking. Too dark, too much fog for a good aim. He fired two rounds anyway. The beast pivoted, grunting and growling, as if the gunshots were nothing more than an annoyance.

In the dim light of the lantern, Isaac saw the silhouette of a heavy-bodied beast. The points of ears. Rounded back. Then the head shifted. A chill passed through him at the sight of silver eyes staring right at him.

“Snallygaster,” he whispered, which was Deitsh for the dragon-like monster of his youth. The winged beast that swooped silently from the sky and snatched up its prey with knife-like talons.

Isaac raised the rifle again, trying not to notice when the muzzle trembled. But the giant creature spun and disappeared into the woods.

Tomasetti and I are in the Explorer heading north. The fog is so thick and wet, I’ve turned on the intermittent wipers.

“Judging from the size of the gash on Beachy’s leg,” he says, “Cujo and his wild cousins are off the hook.”

I glance over at him as I make the turn onto Dog Leg Road. “I’ve seen plenty of animal bites over the years,” I tell him. “Dogs. Cats. Bobcat. Even a raccoon. I’ve never seen anything like that.”

“Cougar?”

I shrug. “There have been a handful of cougar sightings in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan. But none confirmed in Ohio. Not a single footprint or game-cam photo.”

He ruminates a moment. “Could it be from some kind of exotic that escaped a private zoo or preserve?”

“Maybe.” I glance over at him and smile. “Or Chupacabra.”

Chupacabra is, of course, folklore. An urban myth asserting the existence of a blood-sucking beast the size of a bear that attacks in the dead of night. The stories began in the south in the 1970s, and yet purported sightings have been reported as far north as Maine.

Tomasetti smiles back. “Not that exotic.”

Kidding aside, we’re both keenly aware that whatever’s out there needs to be found and contained before someone else gets hurt.

Dog Leg Road is a deserted stretch of hit-or-miss asphalt that dead-ends at the county line. The covered bridge spans the north fork of Painters Creek. I roll up to the gravel shoulder and park, snag my Maglite from its compartment in the door. Next to me, Tomasetti flicks on his own flashlight. We make eye contact briefly.

“You packing?” I ask.

He pats the place where his holster resides beneath his jacket. “Never leave home without it.”

“Not that we have anything to be worried about.”

“Right.”

Leaving the engine running, the headlights illuminating the woods, I get out and we start toward the bridge. A thick blanket of fog hovers, pressing down like soggy cotton. The night sounds of crickets and frogs. The trickle of water over rocks in the creek. Our footsteps echo within the bridge as we pass through. When we reach the other side, Tomasetti takes the right shoulder. I go left, my beam on the ground, senses on alert. Above the treetops, I can just make out the red glow of a blood moon.

“Chief.”

I turn to see Tomasetti kneel. I go to him, spot the wheel ruts in mud. “Buggy came this way,” he says.

“Looks like it.” Farther off the road, I see deep imprints of shod hooves in mud, likely from a panicked horse that was moving fast. “This must be where the horse spooked.”

Our beams track the hoof and tire marks as we traverse the ditch. “Looks like they left the road there,” he says. “Took the buggy through the ditch here.”

“Moving way too fast judging by the depth of the hoof marks,” I murmur.