text: [Themes: horror, action]
  
  It's hunting season in the southern zone of the state, so your rifle is on the rack that hangs on the back window of your old truck. The door creaks as you open it, and you step up so you can reach the Remington. You haven't seen a single buck yet this year, so you know the gun is still fully loaded.
  
  Shutting the door, you hold the gun at your side as you walk past the tool shed, out across the back yard, and into the dark field beyond. Some years your father grew corn here, but more recently this field has been used for hay. The two of you had been able to do a cut the tall grass here during a spell of good weather in the summer — a little more than a month before Hammond Dansker Sr. was found dead on his John Deere — but the rain (and the funeral) kept you from making a second pass later in the fall. Now the field is a forest of dead goldenrod, and the brown remains of the plant form a waist-high forest of spiky stems.
  
  Without a doubt, you can hear something moving around several hundred yards out. It shouldn't be any of the cows, as they are all in the barn tonight, and at any rate this field isn't used for grazing. It could be deer. It could be coyotes, for that matter.
  
  Or... it could be them.
  
  In this darkness it is hard to see anything, but as usual it is not completely black: there is the light over the driveway behind you, and the usual orange glow as Utica's galaxy of city lights are reflected off the clouds. These are enough to let you see a trail of trampled grass leading out into the field, about fifty yards to your left. You look back and see that this trail began not far from your driveway; looking ahead, you see that it leads into the dark void behind the cow barn.
  
  The noise you hear, however, is more to your right — closer to the river.
  
  > head towards the sound of movement.
  With only Utica's toxic glow to guide your way, you stride through the field of dead goldenrod toward the sound of movement. Your family's land, the Elsinore Farm, extends all the way up to the band of willows that line the Mohawk River. The state owns a wildlife management area there, and beyond that lies the Erie Canal, which has been closed for the season. A car turns onto Hinman Road ahead of you, and you watch as the headlights pass the boundary of the farm toward the bridges leading over the twin waterways, but its momentary glow sheds no illumination on whatever it is you are stalking.
  
  Let's think about this. The creature that lies ahead might be a subterranean beast, a vicious monster that devoured your two dogs just as you were sitting down for a Thanksgiving turkey. They spend most of the year burrowing beneath the earth, coming up to the surface only when a ravenous appetite compels them to do so. If the stories are true, then this creature will be as big as your truck. And you thought it would be a good idea to approach one on your own, armed with nothing but your deer rifle?
  
  Compared to watching football with Claude, then yeah, this shit kicks ass.
  
  You don't seem to be getting any closer to the sound of movement, however. As you continue through the field, the creature keeps scurrying ahead, as if you were driving it toward the river. It is frustrating that even in the orange glow of the city lights you can't see a thing.
  
  Or can you? As another vehicle comes up Hinman Road, this time the headlights silhouette a beautiful buck standing just beyond the edge of the field right in front you. It is just a momentary glimpse, but it seems to be poised like a statue in the darkness, displaying what must be an eight-point rack.
  
  This buck is clearly not the monster that ate Rosencrantz and Guildenstern... but it is standing on state land, and with one shot you could fill out your tag for the season. That is, if you had bothered to pay Albany for a hunting license this year.
  
  > take the shot.
  If nothing else, you'll be filling the freezer with venison this winter while everybody else sits on their asses. So you raise your Remington, disengage the safety, aim it at the magnificent silhouette before you, and pull the trigger.
  
  The buck never flinches.
  
  Instead, a pair of floodlights turn on from a parked vehicle hidden just inside the woods. The doors open, and two guys exit the truck, each shining a bright flashlight right at you.
  
  "New York State Environmental Police!" one shouts.
  
  Holy crap, En Con officers — state game wardens. What the hell are they doing out on Thanksgiving?
  
  "Good evening, officers," you say. "Can I help you with something?"
  
  "We'll need to see your hunting licence," the first one says as they stride through the tall grass toward you.
  
  Of course, you possess no such document, so you're going to need to B.S. your way through this one.
  
  "I wasn't doing anything wrong, was I?" you say. "I was hunting on my own property."
  
  "Please, we need to see your license, sir."
  
  "Who are you looking for, anyway?" you say, trying to keep the topic off yourself.
  
  "We've had reports of people shooting from the road," the second En Con officer says.
  
  "But I wasn't on the road," you say. However, it occurs to you that the beautiful eight-point buck you just shot at was a mechanical decoy.
  
  "If we can see your license, we'll wish you a Happy Thanksgiving and let you be on your way," the first officer says. "Just remember to know what it is you're shooting at next time."
  
  "Thank you, sir. I'll remember that," you say. "By the way, have you guys seen anything strange pass through these woods tonight?"
  
  "Your license, please."
  
  As it turns out, the En Con officers are not willing to believe you simply left your license back at the house, and as you never put on a jacket or a hat when you stepped outside, you present the appearance of a poacher, not an educated and experienced hunter. So your holiday ends with an appearance ticket, and no further sounds of the creature you had been pursuing.