The pale disc of the harvest moon rises, outlining the trees' bare, skeletal branches. Your footsteps on the sidewalk echo out into the darkness and you hunch your shoulders against the bitter wind. I thought they said the roda was on this block, you think to yourself, scanning left and right. Something rustles the weeds just off to your left, or was it only the wind? Hairs on the back of your neck stand up. Your stomach sinks down into your bowels. Something isn't right. Rustle, rustle. The instinct to run overwhelms you and you bolt, sprinting as fast as you can. But something is behind you, matching your strides, drawing closer and closer...
