It Let Me Go That Night. It Won’t Again.

Four winters back. January. Rain had been hammering down since three and showed no sign of easing. I’d finished late and the dog was restless, pacing and scratching at the door, so I took him out. Thought a quick walk on the higher ground above the trees would settle him. Light was already going by the time we reached the path. Still enough to make out shapes, but the dark was closing in fast.

Path was wet through, all peat and dead bracken. Dog was out front on the lead like always, pulling a bit, stopping to sniff. Ordinary. Then he locked up solid. Legs stiff, ears flat, and that thin continuous noise started in his throat. Not barking. Not growling. Just this stuck sound like he couldn’t get his breath.

I looked across the open ground and saw the shape. Low. Broad. Keeping right with me. Same speed, same distance, the whole time. I tried to turn back toward the valley lights but it moved in and cut me off. Every time I stopped, it stopped. Every time I moved, it moved. No footsteps. Only the smell—heavy, like river mud and something metallic.

It kept pushing me uphill, blocking the way down. Ground got softer under my boots until it went proper spongy. Cold air was coming up out of the dark opening ahead. The old workings. Sheep get found up that way after nights like this, along the tree line, stripped clean, flesh left next to the bones. You don’t go near the black water. Never have.

I put the headlamp on. Wet fur, thick and flat against a heavy low body, water running off it in sheets. Eyes wide, set too far apart, catching the beam dead still. Head sat low between thick shoulders, no neck to speak of. No sound from it at all, not even breath. Dog was twisting on the lead, shaking hard, mud up over my boots. One more step and I would have gone in. He nipped my hand, deep enough to hurt, and I let go. He was gone down the hill, crying and yelping into the dark. I felt it run warm down my leg and just turned and bolted after him.

Crashed through the trees, fell twice, scrambled up and kept running. Didn’t look back until I reached the first streetlamps. Mud up my legs, blood on my hands from the brambles and the bite. The hillside behind me was dead empty.

When I got to the door the dog was already there, pressed hard against the wood, shaking and peeing, desperate to get in. I opened up and he went straight under the table. Stayed there a long time.

I don’t go up on those high paths any more if the weather’s turning between November and March. Doors locked early. Dog stays in. He still won’t go near the lead after dark if it’s raining. Sometimes in the night he wakes and stares at the door, making that same noise in his throat.

I know it let me go that night. It won’t do it again.

It doesn’t feed out in the open. Makes the kill and takes the meat back down into the flooded dark inside the hill.

I won’t say which mountain. Best leave it alone. No one needs to go looking.