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The Eve of the Hound — Deborah Lewis
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…
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…
