She listened to the night around her and heard nothing beyond the rustling of branches overhead, the whistle of the chilled breeze through the hedge. No dog so far. She started down the stone walkway slowly, scuffing her feet louder than necessary just to have a little audible accompaniment. But still no growls. Not even a whimper. So what were you so afraid of? she chastised herself. A brass band couldn’t rouse that mutt. She looked at the stake in her hand and felt stupid. So when she got to the plastic garbage cans along the garage, it was the first thing to go in.

She unwrapped the blanket and found herself staring at one particular cover in glorious color. The title identified the movie as Fright Night. The woman pictured was blond and clad in a wispy white gown, but that was all so much detail. It was her feral face that dominated the picture, especially her mouth. The lips were peeled all the way back to the nose, baring an unprecedented jawful of teeth. Including the requisite canines.

A chill edged along her spine.

Staring into that face out there in the dark, she realized that what seemed ridiculous in the confines of her home a few minutes ago was a wholly different situation out here. In the silence. In the dark. She still didn’t believe in vampires, at least not in the classical sense. But there were human monsters, weren’t there, not just criminals but blithering psychopaths who strained the boundary between man and beast. Hadn’t she seen tribesmen somewhere, in the National Geographic maybe, who filed their teeth to vampiric points? And weren’t there documented cases of madmen who killed for blood, like that guy she’d seen in a TV Guide book ad once. What was his name . . . the Vampire of Düsseldorf?

She stared at the picture and wondered if someone like that had come upon her boys at the Danner House. And if that someone might still be walking around loose.

A low growl sounded from beyond the hedge at the side of the yard, not ten feet away. It took Billie by surprise, jolted her. The menace it conveyed raised the fine hairs on her neck. “Ssh, Bruiser,” she whispered, trying to stay calm. “Easy, boy. It’s just me.” But the growling continued, deepening until there was no sound at all, just an angry rasping of breath. Billie backed up a step. What is it? Her mind raced. Is it me, or is there something else?

The first yelp was so unexpected that it struck Billie like a physical blow. Another followed soon after, but this one did not end. It was a shrill ululating cry of pain, and it froze Billie in her place. All she could muster was a whispered, “Dear God . . .”