were howling all over the neighborhood, and now lights appeared in the house,
which gave her hope of survival. However, she sensed that the attacker wasn’t
ready to give up, that it was already circling the frantic stallion to make
another try for her. She heard it snarling, spitting. She knew she would never
reach the distant house before the thing dragged her down again, so she
scrambled toward the nearby stable, to one of the empty stalls. As she went, she
heard herself chanting, “Jesus, oh Jesus, Jesus, Jesus, Jesus . .
The two halves of the Dutch-style stall door were bolted firmly together.
Another bolt fastened the entire door to the frame. She unlatched that second
bolt, pulled open the door, rushed into the straw-scented darkness, shut the
door behind her, and held it with all the strength she possessed, for it could
not be latched from inside.
An instant later, her assailant slammed into the other side of the door, trying
to knock it open, but the frame prevented that. The door would only move
outward, and Tracy hoped the amber-eyed creature was not smart enough to figure
out how the door worked.
But it was smart enough— (Dear Lord in Heaven, why wasn’t it as dumb as it was
ugly!)
—and after hitting the barrier only twice, it began to pull instead of push. The
door was almost yanked out of Tracy’s grasp.
She wanted to scream for help, but she needed every ounce of energy to dig in
her heels and hold the stall door shut. It rattled and thumped against the frame
as her demonic assailant wrestled with it. Fortunately, Goodheart was still
letting loose shrill squeals and whinnies of terror, and the assailant was also
shrieking—a sound that was strangely animal and human at the same time—so her
father could have no doubt where the trouble was.
The door jerked open a few inches.
She yelped and pulled it shut.
Instantly the attacker yanked it partway open again and held it ajar, striving
to pull the door wider even as she struggled to reclose it. She was losing. The
door inched open. She saw the shadowy outline of the malformed face. The sharply
pointed teeth gleamed dully. The amber eyes were faint now, barely visible. It
hissed and snarled at her, and its pungent breath was stronger than the scent of
straw.
Whimpering in terror and frustration, Tracy drew back on the door with all of
her strength.
But it opened another inch.
And another.
Her heart was hammering loud enough to muffle the first shotgun blast. She
didn’t know what she’d heard until a second shot boomed through the night, and
then she knew her father had grabbed his 12-gauge on the way out of the house.
The stall door slammed shut in front of her as the attacker, frightened by the
gunfire, let go of it. Tracy held fast.
Then she thought that maybe, in all the confusion, Daddy might believe that
Goodheart was to blame, that the poor horse had gone loco or something. From
within the stall she cried out, “Don’t shoot Goodheart! Don’t shoot the horse!”
No more shots rang out, and Tracy immediately felt stupid for thinking her
father would blow away Goodheart. Daddy was a cautious man, especially with
loaded guns, and unless he knew exactly what was happening, he wouldn’t fire
anything but warning shots. More likely than not, he’d just blasted some
shrubbery to bits.
Goodheart was probably all right, and the amber-eyed assailant was surely
hightailing it for the foothills or the canyons or back to wherever it had come
from— (What was that crazy damn thing?)
—and the ordeal was over, thank God.
She heard running footsteps, and her father called her name.
She pushed open the stall door and saw Daddy rushing toward her in a pair of
blue pajama bottoms, barefoot, with the shotgun cradled in his arm. Mom was
there too, in a short yellow nightie, hurrying behind Daddy with a flashlight.
Up near the top of the sloped yard stood Goodheart, the sire of future
champions, his panic gone, unhurt.
Tears of relief sprang from Tracy at the sight of the unharmed stallion, and she