The Dog That Could Not Be Fought

You are moving along a solitary, unbending path beneath a starless, profound night. On both sides, an immense and shadowy woodland looms, so dense and light-absorbing it feels less like trees and more like a wall at the edge of existence. There are no alternate routes. No diversions. No alternatives. Your will has been simplified into a single imperative: you must continue.

You do not know where this road ends—if it ends at all. Something tells you it might not, and the thought of walking forever isn’t terrifying. It almost feels natural, as though this is what you were always meant to do.

Then you sense it—a large, dark, menacing hound has materialized just behind you. You don’t look back. It doesn’t growl. But you feel its presence like cold breath on your neck. You imagine its grotesque face, saliva stringing between sharp, crooked teeth. Still, you aren’t afraid. It’s only a dog. You keep a steady pace.

The creature never seems to move, yet it’s always there, just out of sight, its malice a constant shadow. Let it lurk, you think. If it attacks, you’ll fight. You’ve always been confident facing aggressive animals.

But its attack defies expectation. There’s no warning—no lunge, no bark. One moment you’re walking; the next, its fangs are sunk deep into your calf. You didn’t see it coming. It wasn’t fair.

Fury ignites within you. It will regret this. You retaliate with everything you have, striking again and again. But your fists meet no resistance—they sweep through the beast as though it’s made of smoke. It looks real, solid, terrifyingly physical. Yet you can’t touch it.

But it can touch you.

There’s no pain, no feeling of impact, but its hold is immovable. Your leg is torn and bleeding, the damage severe. It has you trapped.

Panic sets in. You writhe and struggle, but nothing works. You can’t land a blow. You can’t break free. You can only watch as the creature releases your calf and clamps onto your arm. Then, in a blur, it’s at your throat. It doesn’t chew or tear—it simply consumes, part by part, as though erasing you. Soon, all that will be left is awareness—a mind without a body.

Despair crashes over you. Not because it hurts—it doesn’t—but because you need your body. You have to keep walking.