Chapter 3 #2
After a few minutes, we reach the entrance to my favorite one, a path that leads all the way down to the beach.
I unhook the dog’s leash so he can roam freely beside me.
This trail is usually packed on weekend mornings, but by early evening, most people have cleared out.
It’s why I prefer coming at dusk, even though my mother’s always warning me not to go places alone this close to dark.
My mother has always been a bit… obsessively cautious.
She doesn’t think anywhere is safe, not even a private trail in one of the most exclusive, well-protected neighborhoods in all of California. And I’m not talking about the usual stuff most mothers worry about—kidnappers, serial killers, random creeps. Nope, my mother’s fears run far deeper.
More… fantastical.
Ever since Amber and I were little kids, our mother has warned us about another world—a realm of shadows that exists right alongside our own.
She calls it the “Underworld” and claims it’s like a darker, twistier version of Alice’s Wonderland.
A hidden place, brimming with dangerous magic and full of ancient, powerful gods and monsters, the stuff of nightmares.
Superhuman beings with the strength of a thousand men and the ability to live forever.
She always said Amber and I were “special”—though she never said how—and that if the wrong people ever found out about us, they’d come and drag us into the Underworld.
This wasn’t just some made-up cautionary bedtime story to keep us in line, like the Boogeyman or Krampus. She genuinely believed it.
Back in elementary school, she made us wear these ridiculous black tourmaline bracelets to ward off evil and tucked protection pouches made of special yarrow flowers under our pillows to keep us safe from “spiritual danger.” They actually smelled kind of nice—like rosemary and oregano—but were so bulky it was hard to sleep on them.
It wasn’t until sixth grade that I realized this wasn’t normal. None of the other kids wore spelled crystal jewelry or kept emergency magic sachets in their backpacks. And their parents definitely didn’t talk about deadly imaginary worlds.
I blame my father—whoever, wherever he is. Mom said he was the one who first told her about the Underworld. He’s the one who got her to believe.
When we were growing up, Amber and I used to ask about him all the time.
Who was he?
What was he like?
Mom would feed us scraps, but never enough to truly satisfy our curiosity.
She shared little details, like how he had the same dark hair and fair skin I did.
That he was athletic and strong and fast. Smart and well-read.
But no matter how much we pestered, she’d never tell us anything important, like why he left us or where he went.
Her answer was always the same: we were too young to understand. One day, when we were older, she’d explain everything.
Eventually, we stopped asking.
Suddenly, a deep, thunderous bark jerks me out of my thoughts, and the dog bolts from my side. Ears pinned, teeth bared, he charges straight toward the overgrown woods to our left.
“Shit—Dog!”
I take off after him, cursing myself for letting him off leash. This is our third time on the trail this week—he’s been solid so far, no issues—but I should’ve known better. We’re still just getting to know each other.
“Hey! Come on!” I yell again, running to catch up.
Low-hanging branches whip against my legs as I tear through the woods after him. My sneakers crunch over leaves and loose rocks, the ground turning rough and uneven underneath my feet.
A gnarled tree root juts out of nowhere, and I trip, crashing to the ground. I cry out, curling forward and clutching my leg, trying to breathe through the sting. Tears spring to my eyes, uninvited.
“Dog, stop—NOW!”
My voice comes out sharp, cracked open with frustration as my patience snaps. The dog reappears instantly, racing back to my side and dropping to the ground in front of me.
His body trembles, tail tucked tight beneath his legs like he’s bracing for punishment. A low, nervous whine escapes his throat as he looks up at me—wide-eyed, anxious, like he thinks I might hit him. The thought punches straight through my gut.
“I’m sorry, boy,” I murmur, forcing a smile. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”
I brush bits of gravel and broken twigs from my skin and check the damage. Nothing major, just a few scrapes, some areas beginning to bruise. Still, I’ll probably have to skip shorts for a few days.
“What got into you?” I ask as he edges closer, pressing his muzzle gently to my injured leg.
The dog had seemed perfectly fine one minute, and then he went full chaos gremlin the next, tearing into the woods like something was after him… or he was after something.
But what?
No squirrel. No rabbit. There hadn’t been anything in the woods with us. At least nothing I could see.
But then, the second I gave him a real command—not just yelled his name but actually told him to stop—he’d listened. Came right back to me, just like that day at Hayes’s house.
It’s almost like… he understands me?
An idea sparks.
“Sit,” I say, soft but firm, testing him at first.
The dog drops onto his hind legs without hesitation.
“Lie down.”
He lowers himself to the ground, those big golden eyes locked on me, like he’s waiting for the next move.
“Good boy,” I murmur, grinning as I scratch behind his ears, surprised—and thrilled—by how easily he obeys.
Still, that was pretty basic. Beginner stuff. Maybe I just got lucky.
With a grunt, I push off the ground and stand, wincing as pain flares in my ankle. It hurts a bit but it’s not too terrible. Nothing a little ice and some ibuprofen won’t fix.
I hold my palm out in front of the dog’s face. “Stay.”
He doesn’t budge.
I slowly circle him. Aside from the occasional tail flick to swat a fly, he’s still as a statue.
“Roll over.”
He does—smooth and easy—then sits back up, ears alert, gaze steady.
“High five.”
He lifts a paw and taps my palm.
Holy shit.
I think maybe he really does understand me.
“Fist bump.”
I make a fist and hold it out to him. He hesitates, head tilting a fraction as he lifts a paw, slow and deliberate. Just when it looks like he’s about to do it, he lunges at me instead. His teeth clamp down on my shoelaces, and he yanks so hard my left sneaker nearly flies off.
“Ugh,” I groan. “No, not like that.” I lean in, reaching for his paw to show him what I meant. “Here, look. Fist bump, got it?”
That’s when he opens his mouth, bares his teeth—and growls.
I snatch my hand back, my heart slamming against my ribs.
“No! Bad boy!”
The sound he makes, low and threatening, scrapes along my spine like a rusted blade. For the first time, I really see him. Not the adorable, lovable mutt I brought home from Hayes’s driveway. Not the dog I imagined walking down the beach with in our matching skulls and crossbones bandanas.
The creature in front of me now is something else. Tense. Dangerous. Muscles ripple beneath his fur, and his eyes—those bright golden eyes—don’t look so playful anymore.
They look primal.
Predatory.
And his teeth—
God, his teeth look like they could rip straight through a person. Long and curved like daggers. Not just sharp—lethal.
Even though he’s never acted aggressive toward me before, the realization hits me all at once. He could hurt me if he wanted to.
Badly.
Hell, he could kill me.
The growling intensifies, darker and heavier, vibrating in the air between us.
“Dog, no. Please…”
My voice trembles as I raise my hands, palms out, and slowly step back.
Hayes was right.
I should be afraid.
This animal is so big. So strong. I don’t know where he came from. Don’t know who owned him before me, or what he might’ve been trained to do.
Did he really get lost? Or did someone let him go… on purpose?
A shiver snakes up my spine as one of my mother’s most terrifying stories slinks out from the dark crevices of memory—tales of monstrous canine creatures from the other world. Massive. Bloodthirsty. Bound to the will of the Underworld’s rulers.
She called them hellhounds.
Their purpose: to hunt humans. Track them down on Earth and drag them, screaming, into the shadows below. She said once they caught your scent—once they smelled your blood—they never let go.
My breath catches.
What if—
But before I can really go there, logic kicks in. Followed by a sharp stab of embarrassment.
What the hell is wrong with me?
The dog isn’t growling at me.
He isn’t even looking at me anymore.
Instead, his gaze is fixed on the woods across the trail, ears twitching, body coiled tight, eyes locked on something I can’t see.
I squint, scanning the trees, trying to make out what’s got him so on edge. Probably just a coyote or a bobcat. Maybe a raccoon. It’s too dark to tell.
All around us, the trees blur into a tangle of flickering shadows and shifting shapes. The sun’s nearly gone, dipped behind the ridge, casting long streaks of dusk across the forest floor. Any second now, the last rays of daylight will vanish—and whatever’s out there will have full cover of night.
Bad things happen in the dark.
My mother’s voice—her constant warning—echoes in my ears as a loud snap cracks through the trees. Twigs splintering under the weight of... paws? Feet? Whatever it is, it’s close.
Way too close.
My pulse spikes, adrenaline flooding my system and dulling the ache in my ankle as I stumble back a step, then another. It’s not that I suddenly believe in my mother’s crazy stories, but maybe there’s something to be said for making it home before nightfall.
The dog and I bolt.
I run hard, barely feeling the pain, legs pumping, heart racing like it’s trying to escape my chest.
We don’t stop until Hayes’s house is in sight—and even then, even after locking every door and flipping on every light—I still don’t feel safe.
Because even as I tell myself it was probably nothing, just some stupid animal in the woods that spooked the dog, I can’t shake the feeling that maybe it was something else. Something out there in the dark, watching us.
Watching.
And waiting…