Blair Bathory

Tell me someone else saw that ugly-ass dog. Lisa's voice came quiet, too steady. That wasn't a dog. It had two heads. Yvonne didn't reply. She didn't want to say she'd seen the same thing. She didn't want to name it. By the time they reached the town, the sun had vanished. Smoke curled from the chimneys. The bells of the old mission church tol-

low and slow, like they were still ringing from her uncle's death. They parked near the plaza, and as they got out, one of the elder women, Donna, who knew everyone's business before it happened, stared at them from across the square. You girls took the mountain road? She called out. Yvonne nodded. The old woman spit to the side and crossed herself. That thing walks up there this week.

low and slow, like they were still ringing from her uncle's death. They parked near the plaza, and as they got out, one of the elder women, Donna, who knew everyone's business before it happened, stared at them from across the square. You girls took the mountain road? She called out. Yvonne nodded. The old woman spit to the side and crossed herself. That thing walks up there this week.

low and slow, like they were still ringing from her uncle's death. They parked near the plaza, and as they got out, one of the elder women, Donna, who knew everyone's business before it happened, stared at them from across the square. You girls took the mountain road? She called out. Yvonne nodded. The old woman spit to the side and crossed herself. That thing walks up there this week.

El Nagal, she said. He wears dog skin when he's hunting. Sometimes jab wire. Sometimes worse. Depends on what you owe. Yvonne swallowed hard. Owe? The old woman shrubbed, he follows guilt like a scent. Maybe your Tio owed him something, or maybe one of you does. That night, Yvonne lay on the cot under a window with no curtain, staring at the shape of the ceiling beams in the moonlight.

El Nagal, she said. He wears dog skin when he's hunting. Sometimes jab wire. Sometimes worse. Depends on what you owe. Yvonne swallowed hard. Owe? The old woman shrubbed, he follows guilt like a scent. Maybe your Tio owed him something, or maybe one of you does. That night, Yvonne lay on the cot under a window with no curtain, staring at the shape of the ceiling beams in the moonlight.

El Nagal, she said. He wears dog skin when he's hunting. Sometimes jab wire. Sometimes worse. Depends on what you owe. Yvonne swallowed hard. Owe? The old woman shrubbed, he follows guilt like a scent. Maybe your Tio owed him something, or maybe one of you does. That night, Yvonne lay on the cot under a window with no curtain, staring at the shape of the ceiling beams in the moonlight.

The house was quiet, but not silent. Outside the wind didn't blow, the owls didn't call. It was the kind of quiet that pressed on your eardrums. Then she heard it, a click, then another, like claws on stone. Yvonne held her breath. She wanted to believe it was just a stray dog, or a deer, or nothing, but the sound circled the house. She thought about her uncle, how he died suddenly in his sleep.

The house was quiet, but not silent. Outside the wind didn't blow, the owls didn't call. It was the kind of quiet that pressed on your eardrums. Then she heard it, a click, then another, like claws on stone. Yvonne held her breath. She wanted to believe it was just a stray dog, or a deer, or nothing, but the sound circled the house. She thought about her uncle, how he died suddenly in his sleep.

The house was quiet, but not silent. Outside the wind didn't blow, the owls didn't call. It was the kind of quiet that pressed on your eardrums. Then she heard it, a click, then another, like claws on stone. Yvonne held her breath. She wanted to believe it was just a stray dog, or a deer, or nothing, but the sound circled the house. She thought about her uncle, how he died suddenly in his sleep.

No illness, no warning. And how she used to tell stories about the dog with two heads. She never asked what he'd done, maybe she should have. In the morning, Lisa was gone. No blood, no struggle, just an open window and a line of paw prints in the dirt that led to the edge of the trees and vanished like the thing I'd taken to the sky. People searched. The men yelled her name into the trees.

No illness, no warning. And how she used to tell stories about the dog with two heads. She never asked what he'd done, maybe she should have. In the morning, Lisa was gone. No blood, no struggle, just an open window and a line of paw prints in the dirt that led to the edge of the trees and vanished like the thing I'd taken to the sky. People searched. The men yelled her name into the trees.

No illness, no warning. And how she used to tell stories about the dog with two heads. She never asked what he'd done, maybe she should have. In the morning, Lisa was gone. No blood, no struggle, just an open window and a line of paw prints in the dirt that led to the edge of the trees and vanished like the thing I'd taken to the sky. People searched. The men yelled her name into the trees.

They blamed a coyote, a bear, anything but the truth. Only Donna said what no one wanted to hear. She saw something she shouldn't have, or remember something she tried to forget. Years later, Yvonne still sees the mountain road in her dreams.

They blamed a coyote, a bear, anything but the truth. Only Donna said what no one wanted to hear. She saw something she shouldn't have, or remember something she tried to forget. Years later, Yvonne still sees the mountain road in her dreams.

They blamed a coyote, a bear, anything but the truth. Only Donna said what no one wanted to hear. She saw something she shouldn't have, or remember something she tried to forget. Years later, Yvonne still sees the mountain road in her dreams.

The headlights, the dirt, the sound of tires on gravel, the two-headed thing in the dark, only now, in the dream, it walks on two legs, and it knows her name. She never drives that way anymore, but sometimes, when she's alone, she hears a soft click behind her, claws, just once, then nothing. They say guilt is a kind of scent, the kind that lingers, the kind you never forget.

The headlights, the dirt, the sound of tires on gravel, the two-headed thing in the dark, only now, in the dream, it walks on two legs, and it knows her name. She never drives that way anymore, but sometimes, when she's alone, she hears a soft click behind her, claws, just once, then nothing. They say guilt is a kind of scent, the kind that lingers, the kind you never forget.

The headlights, the dirt, the sound of tires on gravel, the two-headed thing in the dark, only now, in the dream, it walks on two legs, and it knows her name. She never drives that way anymore, but sometimes, when she's alone, she hears a soft click behind her, claws, just once, then nothing. They say guilt is a kind of scent, the kind that lingers, the kind you never forget.

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