Rain drizzled from the sky, speckling the asphalt below as I made my way across the street, toward my building’s cluster box. Around me, the world was calm—a softening canvas of dripping Spanish moss and wrought-iron fences. One by one, the street lamps flickered on, illuminating the darkening walkways. Nothing seemed awry. Cars coasted down the adjacent road, disrupting puddles. Wrens hopped about in the grass, pecking at the softened earth. Nevertheless, I could feel my heart fluttering inside my chest, my nerves taut as a stitch pulled too tight.

Venturing out at dusk was always a gamble. Dangerous things lurked in the dark. Beings born of legend, of nightmare, never meant to be seen by mortal eyes. Tightening my grip on the keys in my pocket, I kept my gaze locked ahead, determined to not turn back around.

You’re nearly there. Just a few more steps.

For weeks, I had avoided making this trek, too much of a coward to linger in the gathering dark. Now, after days of dragging my feet, I could procrastinate no longer. There were bills that needed to be paid, potential notices piling up. I had to be brave. With trembling hands, I shoved my key into my compartment and reached inside, retrieving the roll of neglected envelopes and damp newspapers.

Peering about, I noticed my surroundings remained much the same. Glistening beads of rain still clung to the browning magnolias, and the sounds of the city settling down filled my ears.

“So far, so good,” I muttered to myself, turning back around.

Then, from the corner of my eye, something moved. Something big and woolly. It kept to the shadows, blending with the green leaves of the hedge groves that lined my street. Stomach lurching, I pretended not to notice, choosing to ignore the ever-growing desire to break into a sprint. Running would only make matters worse. There was no outrunning a beast like the Cù Sìth—not with human legs, at least.