Rise of the Night Witch

Chapter 1.3 - A Spirit of Wisdom

The black hound lunged toward me.

It was too fast. I couldn't run. I couldn't hide. In the split second it took to close the distance, all I could do was put my arm before my body. It seized my cloak's sleeve with its jaws, sank its dagger-like teeth into my arm, and scratched my skin with its fangs.

My legs buckled from the pain. My knees sank into the muddy ground as the hound fought with the tissue between its teeth.

A heartbeat later, I was lying on my back and the hellhound's large, bear-like claws sat on my stomach. It barked and snapped at my face while all I could do was use my wounded arm to hold it back. There I was. Seconds in and I lay curled up like a fetus, hoping my head was gonna stay on my shoulders.

A tooth scratched my ear. The hound seized my wrist and pulled it away from my head so that my nape was free for another bite.

It was over. I was going to die. I frantically looked at the exit, the boilers, and the bushes before I saw the miracle that saved me.

The frightened kitten leaped from the bush and slammed its retractable claws into the hound's hide. It was too small to do damage, but it distracted the hound long enough to let go of my arm.

My body shook. My first instinct was to grab the wooden bat and put it between the dog and my bloodied sleeve.

The hound chewed on the bat and tore off its barrel as if it were the skull of a prey animal.

And I thought she could just homerun its head off. If I had time to cover the barrel with barbed wire, maybe it'd have injured itself. As it was, chewing on the wood just barely distracted the hound long enough to put its claws off me.

I stood up.

Time to run. Quickly.

My heart pounded like a fist as I dodged another bite, skittered across the vine-strewn mire, and slipped past the purple hedges. The hound chased after me, close enough that I smelled its breath, close enough to bite my swooshing cloak. Why was I wearing this bathrobe again? At least by channeling aether, I could lift my cloak's rim and prevent it from getting caught around my legs or in the monster's jaws.

The boilers stood roughly where the Otherworld ended and where the real world began. Time to test a theory.

I lowered my head, sprinted towards the water pot, and, at the last moment, jumped to the side. Instead of hitting my flesh, the hound hit the water pot. Its jaws broke a pipe while its body froze upon contact with the hull's stainless steel. Gallons of boiling water rinsed over its body and glued the wet mutt to the room's concrete floor. The water washed over the rim of my cloak and flowed even into the Otherworld's sludge. I'll pay for that collateral damage. Or, at least, my hero insurance will.

The hellhound lay in the resulting puddle. Not that I felt pity for it, I was more of a cat person.

It worked. Folklore had it that the Barghest refused to cross rivers. This was based on the whole idea people had that running water was a purifying force. Hence, Medieval inquisitors thought you could throw people in the water and if they floated, they were witches. The Barghest was an omen of death and water was associated with life, so the antipathy was there.

The hound's flesh melted away into black mud. In many myths, the Barghest was a shapeshifter that, no matter what form it took, always retained its glowing red eyes.

Once its excess mass flowed away, the goblin presenting the true form of the hound remained. It was a wizened creature as small as a dwarf that wore no clothing and showed no life signs other than the occasional twitching. Was it still alive? Was it dead or under an anaphylactic shock?