"It sounded a lot like a coyote," was his gentle reply.

"Uhhhh ...," she moaned. "Is the door locked?"

"I don't think the Chupacabra has opposable thumbs, even if it isn't. But I'll go look."

He stood and deposited her gently on the ground. Despite her fright, she was gripped by the notion of how easily he'd lifted her, and it wasn't clear from where her sudden chill flowed, fear or thrill. Either way, she wasn't about to let him leave her alone. Fear of the dark had never been one of her phobias, but though the anxiety over the Flying Guy had ebbed somewhat, various other disquiets had filled the gaps. The deep dread she now sometimes felt at night was something to which she never intended to confess, but it was there, nonetheless.

So, she followed Eli to the door like Velcro, where she hesitated. He flicked on the outside light and continued to his truck. There he recovered a long, heavy flashlight the beam of which was soon cutting through the night.

At first there was nothing, no sight, no sound, no motion. But as Eli moved out to the driveway, Kate caught sight of a large pale figure, sprung from nowhere, flinging itself directly toward him through the tall grass of the meadow. Her short shriek had little effect, because Eli turned toward the hurdling menace and moved to meet it at a stroll. She wanted to cry out again when he paused and bent toward the fiend, but her startled lips were only able to sputter out a few words.

"Eli ... they spit acid!" The unfounded rumor about Chupacabra behavior was all she could think to say.

"What?" he enquired already on his way back to the door, the menace hot on his tail. "Stray dogs? That would be a helluva thing to breed into a bloodline."

He soon came within the arc of the porchlight. Behind him bounced a skinny, mottled hound that was all legs, ears, and wagging tail.

"I thought you said it was a coyote." She tried not to sound indignant.

"This guy probably bumped into one out there," he said as he jostled the bone-headed beast under the chin. "Like as not, he strayed away from his master out on a hunt."

"Should we call someone?"

"Nah. He'll wander home sooner or later ... as long as nobody feeds him here."

His words stopped her in her tracks, but she opted not to worry that he'd again read her mind.

"Please don't make fun of me," she said instead.

"I won't," he said in his gentle way. "You're not used to living in the countryside."

They left the dog some water, locked up, and went back inside. There was more talk of demons and Flying Guys and other such bogies, and several times the topic turned to other, more mundane, affairs. It was a nice evening, Chupacabra alert and all.