He kicked in the door and swept the gun across the Stygian darkness. Nothing. No, wait. Was that the sound of talons clattering across the wooden floor? And was that a sort of snuffling?

It was. Glen took a step in and fired. The creature screamed.

Then there was a roar and it burst out of the darkness all bloody and enraged, large jaws yawning wider than Glen’s head, ready to bite, to kill.

Glen fired again.

The creature went down from the shotgun blast and began mewling pathetically.

“No,” it bawled in barely understandable words, “Don’t kill me.”

“Did you or didn’t you kill all of Farmer Ted’s sheep?”

“Yes, but I was hungry.”

“Then why shouldn’t I kill you? Wasn’t the village feeding you proper on a regular schedule?”

“Yes, but I couldn’t stop myself. It was my mother’s fault, she didn’t love me enough.” And then, in a self-pitying voice, “I was lonesome.”

“And if I let you live, what then?”

“I’ll help you find many many riches. I have a nose for gold and precious gems.”

“Hmmm,” Glen said. After a moment, he shifted the gun toward the ceiling. “You know I don’t like my mother either. Let’s get you patched up.”

The creature gave a pitiful sob and heaved itself up from where it had prostrated itself.

Glen, disgusted with its wailing as it looked over its blood-speckled hide, looked away. He noticed the shot-riddled wall and took a moment to examine it.

His attention became riveted upon a large foot-long splinter and he reached out to pull it away, unaware that the creature stood behind him, its eyes flaring red.

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