My trip to the range was nice and uneventful. They had my targets, and I got to pop a few paper zombies in the head before working on maintaining a tight shot group. Once that was done, I'd wasted about two hours, so I headed over to the small BBQ/Smoked meat stand that was in the lot beside the range. 

Anyone who's lived in Tampa for longer than a day knows you want to avoid being caught in rush-hour traffic on Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. Blvd, Highway 301, or I-4. Traffic could turn the twenty-minute commute into almost an hour on any of those roads, and they were the only way to get to Thonotosassa. With the food scarfed down, I climbed back in my car and headed down Hwy 301, just ahead of the rush.

When I arrived at my parents' house—located on a nice portion of land off Taylor Road—it was already quarter after five and, the January sunset was bordering twilight.

Growing up in the near rural area had taught me to be vigilant in the early hours of night. Wild animals loved the near darkness, from coyotes to wild boar.

It was with that in mind that I kept my gun on me as I stepped out of my car to open the gate. It was chained and locked, which meant the delivery driver had been there.

Caleb had been my parents' delivery driver for about nine years, and their system worked. He drops off the package at the door and chains the gate for them after.

With it open, I drove in far enough to lock it behind me and parked in the garage to walk around to the back porch.

Sure enough, the long brown box was there, and I carried it inside to drop it on the table.

Completely aware that the traffic on the road for the next two hours would be insane, I flopped down on the sofa and turned on the TV.

"Smart move." I applauded myself, as the news showed a couple major accidents. I resigned myself to relax and channel surf while I waited for traffic to clear.

I paused on some cooking show, not really paying attention, and pulled my phone out of my pocket to text Rob when I heard the first noise.

(I can't quite describe it, reader, at least in any words that make sense. It was almost like fabric made of glass had been ripped.)

It carried into the house from the woods at the back of the four acres, but I didn't get up.

A second sound echoed, like a wolf, husky, beagle, and coyote mixed together. Fear poured ice into my spine.

That’s not normal. I tilted my head, listening for something, maybe my brother coming inside.

The second howl, had me headed for the door.

That was not any animal sound that I've ever heard in my life, I thought, my fingers freezing on the knob.

I didn’t throw it open, but I chose, instead, to peek through the curtain over the window in it.

Nothing was visible from my vantage point, even with the large streetlight installed out by my dad's tool shed, except shadowy treeline.

The spine-tingling howl came again, and, to my astonishment, a man burst out of the treeline at the far back of the property.

(Now, friend, this was astonishing for multiple reasons. First, the woods in the back lead into swampy areas. There's nothing that way for at least two miles except the creek and random mud pits that go up to your knees. Second, he was carrying a crossbow. To be clear, I'm not talking about the ones you buy these days. It was an honest-to-goodness wooden crossbow—like from an old fantasy movie or book. Third, he was kind of shimmering, and I don't mean his skin. It was like his clothes were covered in pearlescent splotches. That was all weird, but what followed him out of the trees scared me senseless)

Hot on his tail were two massive creatures. They appeared to be wolves, but they were the size of large ponies.

One was the kind of black that should blend with shadows. Its coat, however, gleamed in the single light from the pole like an oil slick. The other was slate gray, nearly matte in the scant light.

Their eyes, even from the distance I was at, almost sent me scrambling away from the window. Each had one blue and one scarlet eye. Their teeth were exposed, and they were poised to kill. They were not like any animal I'd ever seen, and there was no doubt they would catch this man before he reached the shed, much less the road. 

(Reader, I'm not going to lie to you or to myself; my first instinct was to lock the door and call nine one one. I didn't go with that. I went with my second instinct.)

Yanking open the utility room door to my left, I grabbed the old rifle my dad kept in there for coyotes and wild boar, and opened the back door.

The man was almost to the shed, and in the light, a cut on his leg was visible. Each step sent more pearlescent red onto his cream-colored trousers.

"Get down!" I shouted.

I must be losing my damn mind, I screamed. Shut the door!

The man looked at me, and I wasn’t sure if he trusted me or tripped, but he dove into the grass.

The instinct that took over was one born of being in tree stands, duck blinds, and beds of trucks since I was big enough to hold a rifle.

I dropped to kneel on the porch, resting the spot just behind my elbow on my knee, and I could hear my dad and my grandpa in my ear as if they were right behind me.

Breathe, Grace.

I drew in a breath.

Now relax your body.

I let my muscles unclench enough to stop my hands from shaking.

Aim.

My left eye closed, and my right eye focused down the barrel at the wolf-like creatures.

Sight.

I lined up the front sight between the rear.

Exhale, then squeeze.

I let out my breath, finding the natural lull, and squeezed the trigger just after the man hit the grass.

The crack of the shot rang in my ears as my right shoulder bore the brunt of the wooden stock’s recoil.

The black beast gave a yelping scream as it was hit mid-jump.

I ignored it and shifted my weapon to the right.

The gray monster leapt over its cohort, its coat color making it a much more visible target in the utility light’s glow.

Again, I fired, catching the creature in the chest.

It went down and stayed down.

The black one struggled to its feet just beside it.

I fired once more, watching through one eye as it fell onto its partner and didn’t move. 

As I waited for more of the creatures to come, my whole body hummed inside like someone had turned on a motor in my chest. Over the ringing in my ears from firing the old rifle, I listened for more howls—for anything.

Everything was still.

Keeping my rifle at the ready, I hurried down the steps.

The silence of the night made my spine tingle, and the old warning of my grandfather echoed in my mind. 

A silent wood is a dangerous wood, Gracey girl. You don't go into one, and if you're already in it, you keep walking until you're out or the noise comes back. Don't run. Whatever you do, never run.

The man hadn't moved since he hit the grass, and I worried he may be worse off than I thought. As I drew closer, a stench hit me without mercy.

The wolf creatures were obviously dead, but they smelled like the world's dirtiest dog kennel had been filled with rotten milk. I almost puked, but I shoved my disgust aside to check on the man. 

He was face down, and I realized that the crossbow wasn't the only thing about him that looked yanked out of a fantasy novel. He was wearing some sort of shirt, like a tunic. It was too dark to tell the color, but it was tucked into cream-colored trousers similar to riding pants. His shiny boots came up to his knees, but they were smudged and scuffed. An empty sheath hung on his right hip, and a miniature quiver, also empty, hung on his left.

He wasn't moving.

"Hey," I said softly, "you okay?"

I nudged his thigh with my shoe. I wasn't about to kneel down until I knew he wouldn't attack me.

(Looking back, reader, I'm surprised I stayed as calm as I did. It wasn't that I was taking it calmly. My mind knew what had happened, but I hadn't quite processed it yet. Adrenaline does weird things.)

"Sir?" I nudged him again. He didn't move. "Well hell."

I knelt down and rested a hand on his back.

The rise and fall of his breaths were weak under my palm. So, carefully, I rolled him over with one hand and gasped.

From the porch, I hadn't seen the massive slashes across his torso. They were shallow but bleeding. When I shook him, the blood was hot and sticky against my fingers.

His left eye was swollen, and his lip was split. I glanced at the massive, dead beasts, then back to the man. My racing heart pounded harder. 

Am I dreaming? I wondered, but the weight of the rifle against my thigh told me I wasn’t.

"You have to wake up. I can't carry you inside," I huffed and contemplated slapping the man. I didn't know if he had any head injury, so I didn't.

The smartest thing to do would be to run inside and grab my cell phone.

There was a fire station two miles away, and they wouldn't take long to get there, maybe ten minutes from call to arrival.

What if more of these creatures came along? I groaned. I had to take him inside, but it was going to be difficult. I blew out a breath, sprinted to the house, stuck the rifle inside, and left the door open, and hurried back to the man.

He was over six feet tall, and he easily weighed a good twenty pounds more than me. Carrying him was out of the question.

Have to drag him. I decided.

I went for his legs instead of his arms, not wanting to exacerbate his wounds, and thanked God that my dad had installed a wheelchair ramp to the porch so my grandma could get into the house. The three-minute journey to the door was an eternity.

(I'll tell you again, reader, adrenaline is a crazy thing.)

I hardly felt the strain at all as I pulled him into the kitchen, where I got a chance to examine his wounds.

His shirt was dark blue, almost black in its shade, and the destroyed material revealed the jagged wounds underneath. My plan to call emergency services was instantly squashed when I saw the blood.

At first glance, it was red, but, with closer examination, it had a sheen, like someone had mixed silver pearl dust into it. The sheen wasn't just at the slashes. It was in the blood that trickled from his busted lip and stained the edges of his nostrils.

"What the hell are you?" I gasped, running to get the first aid bag from my parent's closet.

I used the scissors inside to cut his shirt open and winced when it revealed the full extent of the four gashes.

They were shallow like I expected, but he was losing blood fast.

I grabbed some gauze and tried to staunch the bleeding. I only had a basic understanding of first aid, but I hoped it would be enough. As I stared down at the shimmery, red stains on my gloves, I doubted any hospital would know what to do for him. I just needed to get him bandaged up and awake, because one thing was for certain.

He was not a human.