text: Judas was an old German Shepherd with uncharacteristic gray, cloudy eyes. When he showed up on the front porch of my cabin a few weeks ago I thought he was blind at first. That is, until he walked right up to me and looked me directly in the eyes. I thought this was strange for a stray dog to do, especially one this old. Usually they're timid and easily startled but Judas didn't seem to fear anything. He was calm and sweet so disregarding what my mother always told me about stray animals, I took him in. He usually slept on my old rug in front of the fireplace I used to heat my home at night. I didn't mind him chewing on the corners of an already tattered and worn out thing I should've thrown away years ago. After all, living alone there's no one around to care much about what your rugs look like. He seems to enjoy his traditional spot but for the last few days he's been trying to sleep in my room. He would jump on to my ancient wooden bed while I was out of the room, probably hoping I wouldn't notice. The hallmark creeks and groans from the loose screws and rusted springs in the mattress always gave him away, though. I would gently push him off the bed and he'd scurry down the short hallway back into a dusty living room that always seemed empty, despite having much more furniture than anyone should ever squeeze into such a small space. This evening I won't be around to keep him out of my bed. It's early November, and despite the cold weather and low water temperature, the catfish are hitting like crazy in the local river. Judas doesn't seem to like leaving the house so I go fishing alone. I poured the last of his dry food into a bowl and told him I'd be back in a few hours. On my way out the door I hear him let out a meek whine but I'm too focused on the tasks at hand to worry about it. I load up my hand-me-down fishing gear into the back of my old Ford I bought cheap in my early twenties. It seems to be more rust than truck these days and the red paint is chipped and faded but it still gets me where I need to go. After a couple of tries the tired engine finally starts up and I can be on my way. I shift her hard into reverse and with a lot of grinding and squeeking I back out into the retired logging road that I live on. Other than Mrs.Thacker, a widowed school teacher that lives a couple miles down the road, I have the only house in my little valley. My usual fishing spot is only a few minutes down the road, so I don't even bother trying to get my busted radio to work on the way there. I just listen to crunch of the autumn colored fallen leaves that cover the unused one lane road and the struggling motor whine and groan. Although it's not much past 7 pm it's already dark this time of year and if there is moonlight tonight I surely can't see it through the thick clouds overhead. My yellow headlamps are the only source of light in these dark woods tonight. When I get to my fishing spot I always park in the same place, a small dirt indention on the right side of the road. My grandpa always parked here when he'd take me to the river to fish and I don't really plan on going anywhere else. The river was about sixty feet below the road, down a steep bank covered in thick bushes that seemed to grow up anywhere the trees would allow them to. My grandpa refused to go down here at night, I assume because he was afraid he or I would fall in the water. Or maybe he just didn't want to try to navigate the woods in the dark. I can't help but to think about all the evenings we spent here together when I was young. Reeling in fish after fish, never thinking about anything beyond where to make our next cast. As I grabbed my bucket of filleted bait fish and my fishing rods from the back of the truck I felt like I was being watched. I did a quick scan of the treeline with my flashlight and put a hand on my old hatchet I keep in my belt loop. You can never be too careful with the wild life in these forests so it's best to keep a watchful eye. With my gear firmly in hand and my heart pounding a bit from the anxiety of being alone on the river at night, I began to make my way through the dying thorn bushes and tree limbs that were beginning to look bare and withered like they do every fall. When I finally reach the bank of the river I make my way to the dirty rock I use as a table to bait my hooks and hold my tackle box. With my first hook baited in the same fashion my grandfather taught me, I cast my line to the middle of the river next to the ruins of an old bridge support beam for the railroad. With my flashlight shaking a bit in my hand I try to keep one eye on my pole and another on the treeline a few feet behind me, listening for any signs of black bears or coyotes. This time alone on the river always seems to pass like molasses, but it's well worth it to have fresh catfish for dinner. Besides, there's not much else to do around here other than chop firewood and drink. Out of nowhere I get my first bite of the night. Catfish like to hit fast and they like to hit hard. This one almost jerks my fishing pole out of my hand and into the dark rolling water of the river. I pull the pole back to set the hook start fighting the fish. As I reel him in I'm already excited imagining how big it is with how much of a fight it's putting up. Suddenly, I hear a loud crash in the trees behind me followed by the rustle of branches getting closer and closer. I panic and let go of my pole and turn around as quickly as I can, pulling out my hatchet and frantically searching the trees with my flashlight for any sign of movement. The rustling stops, and for a moment all I can hear is the slow movement of the water now behind me and the breeze through the limbs of the trees reaching out overhead. Slowly, I see something start inching out of the woods directly in front of me. I tense up and try my best to make myself look as big and sturdy as possible. As my eyes start to make sense of the mass moving towards me I realize that it's just a deer.With it's antlers growing just barely out of the top of it's head it must be fairly young, though old enough to have lost the spots that young deer usually have on their sides. I chuckle to myself a bit and try to calm down as I turn back toward the river looking for my fishing pole. I point my flashlight around on the ground but it's nowhere to be seen. In my panic, I forgot all about the massive fish I was fighting and now realize that my pole is likely somewhere in the middle of the river. "Goddamnit!" I yell as I turn back toward the deer that caused me to lose my grandfather's fishing pole. Usually easily startled, this deer seemed braver than most as it still stood there just a few feet from me after I screamed. I pick up a rock at my feet and throw it in the deer's direction, yelling for it to go away. The deer just stood there looking right at me. "Alright" I chuckle to myself taking a few steps in the direction of the deer. "you can't stay here!" I say a little louder. But as I walk to the deer, it begins to walk towards me. I start to think to myself that maybe this deer is sick. I've heard the guys at the Dollar General talk about seeing sick deer do some weird stuff in the woods, but I've never seen it myself. Suddenly the deer stops dead in it's tracks. As I hold my flashlight directly on its face I can see it's cold, gray eyes look seemingly straight through me. Just as I begin to feel in my stomach that something is really wrong, the deer rises on it's hind legs. "What the hell?" I say, startled, and stumbling backwards away from the deer. Standing frozen, I don't even think to reach for my hatchet as the deer slowly walked towards me on its back two hooves. Its front legs begin to reach out to me, and slowly the stretch into human like arms. I scream and start to run up river along the bank. After a few seconds running I turn towards the treeline, hoping that maybe I can get back to my truck. I don't stop to look back to see if the deer, or whatever it was, is following me. I just know that I absolutely need to get out of here. Realizing now that I dropped my flashlight when I took off running, I push through the thick underbrush, clawing my way up the hill to the road. When I finally break through the treeline onto the road I look all around, I hear nothing and I see nothing. For a second I think to myself that I imagined the whole thing. That comforting thought is short lived, though, as I look to my truck about 50 feet down the road and in the darkness I can see a figure standing next to the driver side door. For a moment, I think about running away down the road. Maybe I can make it to Mrs.Thackers house. It isn't that far. But how fast is this thing? Is it even real? I'll look like a crazy person if I show up on her porch asking for a ride home because some shape shifting monster chased me away from my truck. Nervously, I grab my keys out of my pocket with my left hand and pull out my hatchet with my right. As I step slowly towards my truck I begin to shake. I don't think I've ever been more afraid, or confused in my life. What is this thing? Am I hallucinating? Questions start swirling in my head faster than I can make sense of them. As I get closer, I realize that I am not hallucinating. I can hear the wheezy, shallow breaths of the creature next to my truck. The clouds break up a bit and in the dim moonlight I can make out a vaguely human looking figure. Although I can't see its face, I can make out curled and nasty claws coming out of the tips of its hands like fingernails. As I step toward the truck it steps toward me. For a moment, we both stand still. It's as if it is sizing me up and I am too scared to move or do anything about it. In a flash of bravery, or stupidity, I swing my hatchet straight for its head as I scream. The creature being much quicker than me seems to dodge my attack fairly easily and as my own momentum throws me to the ground I feel its claws sink into my right leg. Face down and screaming in pain, I feel myself being drug across the gravel of the old road I parked on. Somehow, I get myself turned right side up and swing my hatchet blindly in the direction of the beast's head. This time I feel the hatchet make contact right above its left eye and the creature loses it's grip on my leg, letting out a disgusting scream that can likely be heard for miles around in the otherwise silent night. Immediately, I start crawling as quickly as I can to my truck. With every movement I wait to feel the creatures claws clamp down on me again, but they never seem to come. I pull myself up on my door handle and climb into the truck. I put my keys in the ignition and turn them over but the truck just cranks. I try again and it still won't start. I frantically try over and over to start the truck while looking out the windows for the creature that just tried to pull me into the woods, likely to my death. Finally, the engine turns over and begins to run. I slam the shifter into gear and take off down the road. I look in all of my mirrors as I pull away and the only sign that it ever even existed is the burning wound pouring blood down my right leg. As I speed home all I can think about is a story I heard once as a child from an old native man that used to visit my grandfather. He spoke about a shape shifting monster that lived in the mountains for centuries before Europeans came and settled the land. It terrorized the tribes that lived here, often taking the shape of their domestic animals and killing for food when no one was expecting it. Maybe that's why my grandfather wouldn't go fishing at night? When I finally made it home I quickly run into the house. I slam the door behind me and lock the deadbolt. Remembering an old 12 gauge shotgun I keep under my bed, I limp quickly to my room. When I open the door I freeze. Judas is standing on the bed, unmoving. Something seems off about his demeanor and as I look at him I notice that he has a fresh wound, still bleeding, right above his left eye.