Somewhere in the north-woods darkness, a creature walks upright. And the best advice you may ever get is never to go out... At night.

For the record, I wanted to cuddle.

She just kissed me on the cheek, told me to get out of her van, and said goodnight. Even today, looking back, I’m certain that I will never understand the way Anwyn’s brain was working that night.

So I went home, ate something, and decided that a nightcap was a good idea.

I was sitting down to sample my most recent batch of homebrew, a nice smokey porter that I’d infused with Thai chilies, when my phone lit up with Anwyn’s name and number.

Of course I answered. It was either a job or a booty call.

“Airport. 20 minutes. Bring a flashlight and wear sensible shoes.”

Then she hung up. I think it says something about my state of mind at the time that this struck me as perfectly reasonable.

Besides, I’d used way too much chili in the beer.

The Duluth International Airport isn’t much to look at. Calling it “International” is kind of a joke to those of us who live here. Only has five gates, and I’m pretty sure that the only way it got the name is for offering puddle jumps to Canada. What it does have going for it is an Air **** base, manned mainly by reserves.

Turns out this is why I was here.

“So Technical Sergeant James Anderson was doing a patrol of the airfield when he saw, and I quote, ‘A hairy beast standing on two legs, barenaked and hung like a fucking donkey’. Sergeant Anderson gave chase and discharged his sidearm when the ‘beast’ dropped to all fours and ran into the underbrush, outpacing Anderson’s jeep easily.” While giving this monologue Anwyn was hunched over one of the seemingly ubiquitous Pelicans in the process of assembling a wicked looking rifle.

“Why do I get the feeling that you’re leaving something out?”

“Because you’re starting to really get to know me?” She slammed home a magazine that looked like it was far too long to contain bullets.

“So… we should expect resistance?”

“Miles, it’s a tranq gun. Just a basic precaution.” With that she turned and walked toward the underbrush, the rifle slung over her shoulder and what looked like a… picnic basket?

I hurried to catch up. “Why don’t I get one?”

“Ever used one?”

She had me there. I’m kind of a pacifist, and on those rare occasions when I’ve been called upon to inflict **** on someone else I’ve always used my fists. Still, a tranq gun didn’t sound like a bad idea. “I’ll just add that to the list of shit you need to teach me.”

We’d been prowling the bushes for around a half hour when she suddenly stopped dead and raised her fist in the air, signaling for a quiet stop.

That was when the smell hit me. It was like a mixture of rotten eggs, wet dog, and burnt popcorn all rolled into one olfactory juggernaut that assaulted my nose, **** it, and left it bleeding on the ground. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t have a weak stomach. It was just that bad. Fuck, I could taste it, and the small amount of beer along with the 2000 calories of McDonald’s I’d scarfed down earlier, attempted to mount a revolt and **** the fortress of my teeth in an effort to escape from the miasma.

I was just **** that back when my the **** redoubled, taking on an auditory component. The sound which shattered the night was like a bark from a dog, but no dog on earth would have been large enough to have uttered it.

My mind started running through all the possible legends and cryptids that had a canine basis that I’d ever heard of, and by the time it’s shadow loomed up over us, I was fairly certain that we were being menaced by a hellhound.

Anwyn had unlimbered her rifle and was scanning all around, the butt pressed against her shoulder, calm and cold as ice. Then she stopped moving and started laughing hysterically.

“Nice one, Leon. Now get your ass out here.”

(Title: “The Legend” by Steve Cook)