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So that’s why there were no footprints! Joe thought. He stopped running, planted his feet, and raised the M1 carbine to his shoulder in one fluid movement. “Greg! Get down!” He aimed at the black thing but checked his fire. He darted a glance at Greg, who was still running despite his shouts. “Dammit!” Joe muttered.

He needed to be sure no stray rounds hit his grandson, but the need to shoot at the thing chasing Greg mounted until drawing breath grew difficult. Joe doubled his speed, running flat out through the woods, not seeing the blurred detritus of the forest in his path. He leaped over fallen branches, slid through piles of rotting vegetation, and skipped past gnarled roots—all on automatic.

When the urge to do something grew too strong, Joe slammed to a stop, raised the M1 and shouted, “Greg! Get down now!” Without waiting to see if his grandson complied, Joe sighted on the black thing in the forest and fired three shots in rapid succession. The rifle’s reports filled the woods, and all three rounds slammed into the thing chasing Greg. Splatters of something thick and black flew to the ground surrounding the creature. It shrieked in the high pitch of a woman but sounded more angry than hurt. Greg darted a glance over his shoulder and slowed to a stop.

“Greg, no!” Joe yelled, waving at Greg to continue running, to get away.

The black thing snapped its head to face Joe and glared at him.

Is that… That’s a woman! What’s she covered in, mud? What’s she supposed to be? The creature from the Black Lagoon? Her eyes were as green as the meadow in springtime, but as he watched, they dimmed and grew dark, menacing. She screamed at him, and the sound was unlike anything Joe had ever heard, eliciting a running shudder up and down his spine.

Whatever she pretended to be, she was after Greg, and that, Joe wouldn’t abide. He fired again and again as he tracked the running woman with the barrel of his rifle. Each shot flew true, and each shot sent what looked like black mud splattering to the ground and brush surrounding her, but she didn’t hesitate, didn’t slow.

“Greg! Greg!” Joe shouted. Hits to the body aren’t cutting it, Marine! He drew a bead on the woman’s head, leading her about a foot, and he took a deep breath and exhaled it all but didn’t draw more. He tried to calm himself, to still his racing heartbeat, and he tried to stand loose, relaxed, remembering his marksmanship training. Joe timed his shot for a narrow instant between beats of his heart and pulled the trigger. Time turned sluggish, and Joe imagined he could almost see the bullet inching through the space separating him from his grandson’s tormentor.

Her head snapped to the side, and finally, she stumbled.

“Stung you there, you bitch!” shouted Joe. Why hasn’t she fallen? I must’ve winged her. He fired again, still aiming at the woman’s head, and that round rocked her head to the side for the second time. She whirled to face him, and Joe could distinguish her features at last. Despite the mud or whatever covered her, she had a beautiful face—almost elfin features in perfect proportions.

She opened her mouth and screamed, her eyes boring into Joe’s.

A cold, analytical part of his mind had kept track—only three rounds remained in the magazine. He couldn’t remember whether he’d picked up a spare magazine and shoved it into his back pocket as he’d always done when he rehearsed retrieving the weapon. His memory of the events leading up to the chase through the woods had hazed, had misted over as surely as the early morning sky above his head.

The woman froze, glowering at Joe. Her head hunched forward, and her arms hung straight at her sides, ending in fists. Fists with long, age-yellowed, broken and cracked fingernails. In the woods surrounding them, something popped like corn in a popper.

Joe still held the M1 to his shoulder, his finger still on its trigger. He began to take up the trigger’s slack when something slammed into him from the darkness at his back. The M1 fired wild, sending a bullet racing off through the trees. Joe stumbled forward, fighting to remain on his feet, his left arm flailing for balance.

Something else hit him from the side, and he got a vague impression of black fur and flashing fangs. Dogs? The third weight slammed into him, and he fell, losing the rifle in the confusion. He landed amidst the knobby roots of a tree, and his breath whooshed out of him all at once. He flipped to his back, drawing his knees up to protect his groin and belly, ready to fend off the dogs that had knocked him to the ground.

There was nothing there.

Joe rolled to his knees, his head rotating back and forth, scouring the woods for any sign of his four-legged attackers. He darted a glance toward where the woman had last stood, but she too had disappeared into thin air. Greg had put quite a distance between them and ran still.

Sweeping up the M1, Joe resumed his chase, but this time he kept his eyes moving and his head on a swivel. He searched every shadow, every dark tree trunk, but it was as if the woman covered in black had disappeared.