It’s nearly dark, and the only sounds are the whisper and scrape of leaves. It’s so quiet out here I feel like I’m in church. I haven’t seen a soul, so maybe I am. Anyway, I have a sudden urge to light a candle and call a priest. It’s spooky. The leaves skitter around my legs. My bones are cold. A streetlight comes on.
Out at the edge of the dying light – way across the shadowy night – I can make out some dark figures standing in the field. I’m startled. Where did they come from? What are they doing? Wait … are they getting closer?
And now I see the black shapes are chasing a tiny black speck. And the speck is running right for me. (Run speck run!). And I can see the tiny people running too, waving tiny hands and crying shouts of alarm but I can’t make sense of their frantic distant sounds; are they saying “he’s friendly!” or “whatever you do don’t move!?”
I hold my breath as the speck becomes a spot. But this spot is not Jane’s friend. This spot is made of fear and foam. It’s the huge black dog of nightmares, of graveyards, of hell. It’s less of a dog, really, than an Omen.
I freeze in the lamplight. I have a dog. I know dogs. Just relax. Be alpha-zen. But I remember, in this split second before the hound of hell arrives to rip this soul from its mortal coil, that dogs smell fear (or is that horses?) but either way I know for a fact that I will surely die, as I am drenched in the smell of Linda Blair. I am wearing terror under my fleece. He will smell it, alright. And he will eat it alive.
And now the Grim is upon me, his giant skull, his stretch of teeth, his wagging tail. Oh the speck and spot of fear! When you see it coming toward you, laugh and welcome it. His name could be Boo, and his foam could be friend.
Starting Close 