Hell Hound

The goat carcass lay half-submerged in the muddy river. Her neck was stiff, stretched out, and empty eyes bulged in their sockets. Her mouth hung open; she had died gasping in vain for breath with a clean, precise slice to the throat nearly through the entire neck. Despite the rain, there was still blood around her head and the remains of a blood trail led from the direction of the low pasture (naught but a mud pit after days of continuous thunder storms) to this spot.

A brisk, biting wind ripped through Ciaran’s coat and gnawed his bones, throwing raindrops like little daggers into his pale face. He stood on the muddy bank (or rather. in it; mud climbing halfway up his shins) on the verge of regretting his decision to trek out here.

The river was bloated with rainwater and silt, the current dangerously fast. The low, ominous growl of thunder promised the continuation of this ill weather.

But Eira, the best milker, had been missing since yesterday morning. Ciaran straightened, wiped his wet face with his even wetter coat sleeve and contemplated the situation. The cut through Eira’s throat was precise. There was no tearing of the flesh, no sigh of multiple injuries, as would be the case if she had been pursued by wild beasts. She was killed intelligently. But who would be out in such weather, killing goats and leaving them to rot?

The sky grew darker and rain fell harder. Cold droplets streamed from Ciaran’s brown hair into his brown eyes, streaming off the top of his nose and into his slightly open mouth. The coat did little to help; his boots were full of water and mud.

He dragged Eira out of the water, struggling with her weight and the slippery bank, skidding and falling in mud multiple times. Her head caught on something and tore completely off the rest of her. He had to go back and retrieve it separately. But he didn’t want her contaminating the water that the flock drank from.

Having accomplished this task, Ciaran wiped his face again. Lightning flashed in the dark sky. His heartbeat sped up; he wanted only to return home, change clothes, and get a cup of tea. The uneasy feeling about the means of Eira’s death lingered like the taste of bile in his throat. The (entirely childish, he told himself) fear that whoever or whatever had hunted her down may hunt him too had wormed its way from his subconscious to the edge of rational thought. He focused his thoughts on a cup of tea and change of clothes. He would figure this situation out later.

The trek back to the farmhouse was roughly a mile and a quarter, mostly uphill, along the edge of a gorge. Ciaran was familiar with the path and didn’t bother to take it very slowly. The bottom of the gorge had become a very small, shallow stream. The soil was sparse here. The ground mostly consisted of shale.

Ciaran had been walking along the ridge for several minutes when his foot slipped. A jolt went through his every nerve ending as he fell and he cried out involuntary, though the cry was drowned out by rain and thunder.

He skidded down the gorge, smashing limbs against rocks and scraping his face on the way down. Once at the bottom he lay silent, chest heaving and his breath catching due to the pain in behind his right shoulder blade were some rock jutting up had managed to jab him.

He assessed his injuries according to pain level and determined he was fine, albeit in for a few rough, sore days. He proceeded to gingerly push himself up. Then, he froze.

The gorge was full of different crevices and caves, some of which Ciaran had explored. A few feet ahead of him and to the right was an entrance to one of these caves, a considerably larger one than most. At the entrance of this cave was the silhouette of an immense, shaggy black dog. Ciaran could hear it breathing loudly. At this moment, the dog was looking away.

Ciaran assumed it was part of one of the random, stray dog packs, despite its size. It was dangerous, but most likely skittish as well. He could probably intimidate it easily if the need arose.

The dog turned its head toward Ciaran, and glowing red eyes bored into his soul. His heart stopped for a split second and then started up again with a jolt, beating against his ribcage as if it wished to escape. Ciaran didn’t move. Look away, look away. Don’t let it see me. Please, please. Please. No. He could only pray in frantic, broken thoughts. Don’t let it see me. It took a step forward. No. No, no, no, no… The word repeated like a drum beat in his head.

The dog’s large, sharp nails were shiny black against the gray rock and brown mud of the ground. Ciaran twitched slightly, wanting to stay frozen, knowing he may need to jump into action. Or I could just die. This was no earthly creature. The prospect of being killed by it left him more worried for his soul than his body. Or would such a beast even kill him? Did a demon dog need sustenance? Would it merely drag him down to eternal torment? Ciaran’s every fault and sin stumbled through his mind at once.

A new sound cut through the rain and wind. Something was running, or falling down the side of the ravine. The beast looked away. Ciaran turned his head slightly as well. A young deer had fallen down the ravine as he had and was now in the sights of the demon dog.

Ciaran saw the beast tense beneath sopping, shaggy black fur. In a powerful leap it tackled the deer and pinned it to the ground with one large front paw. It then raised its other front paw and with one claw slit the deer’s throat. After this it dragged the poor animal away, kicking until the end. Nauseating fear twisted Ciaran’s stomach.

It took a bit for Ciaran’s heartbeat to slow down and the trembling to stop. His only desire now was to make it home with body and soul intact, bar his door, and pray. He got up from the mud and walked along the gorge a ways until he reached a spot that was less steep, which he could climb up with minimal struggle.

Once back at the top he determined that he was about three quarters of the way home and he felt a wave of dread colored with only the tiniest tint of relief wash over over him. Please, Lord, let me make it home. He felt that it was now, when he was so close, that he was most likely to be attacked. He wasn’t quite sure what gave him this feeling.

He walked carefully, straining to listen in the wind for anything unusual, until he reached the point where he could see his farmhouse. It was still a ways a way. Ciaran glanced around one last time and broke into a sprint. It was the fastest he could ever remember running.

He made it inside the house, barred the door, and lit all the lamps before kneeling on the hardwood floor to pray. As the evening waned, so did Ciaran’s fears. He went to bed with some measure of peace. Perhaps the beast’s eyes were not red. Perhaps it wasn’t as large as I had thought. He managed to sleep.

Ciaran awoke with a start. It was utterly dark, though he thought he had left one lamp lit. He wasn’t sure what had awoken him. Something was different. He strained to listen and then it hit him. The rain! It’s not raining. There was no thunder either. The storm had ended. Praise the Lord. Ciaran closed his eyes.

A deep howl broke the silence of the night. Ciaran’s eyes shot open once again. He had heard stories of such creatures. Demons, harbingers of Hell. He remembered one particularly frightening story in which a similar creature had wreaked havoc on a church building and killed a man. Or perhaps this very creature. Ciaran got out of bed and stood in the middle of the floor, facing his barred door. He had a pike on the wall just behind him, but he did not grab it.

He did not want to die. But if the Lord saw fit…

“Lord, take me whenever you please. But please, not in this manner. Not in this way.” The fear was waning again, but this time it was replaced by courage.

“Lord, not in this way. Please, not in this way, if it be Your will.” Ciaran started toward the door, grabbing the pike. He stood for a moment. The howl came again, louder and closer. He opened the door.

There, about fifty or so feet in front of his door, sat the beast, slavering.

“Back to Hell!” Ciaran shouted. The beast took a step forward. “In the name of the Lord Jesus, back to the abyss with you! You may not fear me, but even demons fear the One I serve!”

The demon dog whimpered and cowered away.

Lord, please. “Lord, please.” He said aloud.

The beast let out a mournful howl and fled, tail tucked between its legs.

“Oh, Lord, thank you. Thank you. Hallelujah.” The gates of Hell shall not prevail. And the pearly gates of Heaven stand strong.

Ciaran shut the door, forgetting to bar it. A ravenous hunger had come over him seemingly all of the sudden. He pulled some bread and wine out of his pantry and set the kettle on the stove so that he could make tea. He sat at the table hands folded in thanks for the meal, and then began to eat slowly, despite the hunger. He was unsure what to make of this. He believed he had done the right thing. He could not understand. Well, perhaps that does not matter. He thanked the Lord again.

The kettle whistled shrilly, indignant, but Ciaran did not rise to get it. He had left his own victory feast for a far better one.