My daddy didn’t teach me how to hold my keys between my knuckles or scare off a cat-caller. Coming from the country, I never had to worry about them; strange men didn’t make a habit of lurking out in our woods. We did have chickens, though, and they were high on the menu for a lot of mean critters. So, my daddy saw it fit that my self defense lessons consisted of which color of bear to run from, which snake bites will send you to the hospital, and how to fight off a coyote.

Thumb in the eye, grab the muzzle, knee on the throat.

Once I loaded my life into a u-haul, I didn’t think I’d need those lessons anymore. But I was gonna have to learn all the standard stuff that girls my age had years of practice with– how to use pepper spray and not get it in your eyes, how to break free when someone grabs you from behind, that you need to yell “fire” instead of “ help” when someone assaults you. I never expected that I’d need to know the back-mountain rules in the brightly lit city. They had a different sort of predator there, creeping between the buildings as tall as trees.

Still, as the clerks at the front desk poorly whispered about the coyote with a frothing mouth in the parking lot, I swallowed my surprise and laid it to rest on the cushion of relief and gratitude that I knew what to do if me and him had a run-in on the walk to my room.

Thumb in the eye, grab the muzzle, knee on the throat.

“You need a room?” The blonde clerk bluntly asked between smacks of her gum.

Despite the rustic-cabin facade, it didn’t seem like I’d be finding much southern hospitality at Cold Brook Inn.

“Yes. Please. Just for a night.”

The brunette clerk darted her eyes up at my thick accent, snickering as she looked back down at her phone. There is a quick quirk on the corner of the blonde’s mouth, but she otherwise remained decidedly unbothered.

She chewed her gum louder. “Just you?” “Yes, ma’am. Just me.”

“One night is $30.”

Jesus and all his Marys. I huffed a laugh. “How many tragic deaths does it take to get that kind of discount?”

The two clerks exchanged a startled glance. I don’t even think they exhaled as they stared at each other. The pregnant pause was quickly approaching its due date.

“Apologies, that was poor taste. I’ll take it,” I amended awkwardly. Reaching into my wallet, I grabbed out two crumpled bills and slid them over the stained countertop to the blonde. I tried not to look down at the almost empty pocket of cash. I’d get a job at a coffee shop or something once I was settled into my classes. I’d make it ‘til then.

Blondie tossed me a golden, rusted key over the counter. I could finally see her name tag as she stood. Moira, it read. Such an old-soul name for a modern young woman. I bet she hated it.

“Thank you, Moira. Mind pointing me and my bags in the right direction?”

She did a sad job at hiding a sneer, but jerked her head silently to the right, nonetheless.

I nodded my head in thanks and picked up my two fully-stuffed duffels, making my way to the creaking red door of the lobby.

I was on alert as I stepped out into the lot. I could just make out the fading 107 written in sharpie on the little piece of leather attached to the key. I turned my head and saw the 100 on the lobby door. Seven rooms. It wasn’t too far of a walk down. I could be quicker than a diseased coyote.

I began walking, my luggage bumping against the sides and backs of my knees with every step. The soft swishing of the nylon against my leggings filled the otherwise silent midnight air. I was trying to step quietly, afraid that the sound of my boots thumping against the ground would hide the tell-tale scratching of skittering claws on pavement.

I heard my daddy’s voice in my head again, repeating the same instructions in a feeble attempt to settle myself. Thumb in the eye, grab the muzzle, knee on the throat.

101.102.103.104. My heart slowed with each passing of another door, each number a welcome comfort. When I reached room 105, I couldn’t help the shock of adrenaline that took control of my legs. I abandoned all attempts at silence and darted for my door, the opportunity of safety too enticing for my dwindling patience. In three giant steps, I came to a thundering stop in front of my room. Suddenly nervous about my back facing the parking lot, my hands fumbled to set down my bags and situate the key into the lock. Only when I twisted the key did I stop to realize that the door was already open.

It wasn’t a large gap, just a sliver where I could see the hole of the exposed latch. I took a step back, almost tripping as my ankle hit my bag. There were large windows on the side of the room and the curtains were pulled back. I could see inside the whole room, including the open bathroom at the right angle—there was nobody inside.

Which is worse? A monster on the outside or the inside?

Deciding that the risk of a rabid coyote was worse than the slim possibility of someone being inside, I picked up my bags and shouldered the door open fully. Some cleaning lady probably just forgot to close it all the way.

Or rather, she couldn’t close it at all, as I quickly discovered that the door simply didn’t shut.

Groaning, I threw my bags down in a huff. It had been such a long night. Was it too much to ask for something to go right for once? Taking a deep breath—inhaling and exhaling the damp mustiness of the room—I made a resolution to start praying again once this whole mess was over.

With the dust of the air still coating my lungs, I tried one more time to force it shut. Placing my hands flat against the door, I shoved with my whole body. The door shuttered into the frame; there was no click. I dropped my hands and the door bounced back open. I thumped my head to the peeling puke-green paint.

I was gonna have to call the front desk. Moira and her friend didn’t seem like the helpful type, but maybe they had a handy-man who was. Still cautious of the prowling canine outside, I tucked my luggage tightly to the door, just enough to buy me time in case he got curious.

My feet shuffled past the bed to the dry-rotted desk where the phone sat. I reached to pick up the receiver when my hand stopped short. There was a broken pen leaking indigo ink onto the table. What on God’s green earth was this place?

I targeted all my annoyance and exhaustion onto that poor little pen. Rushing to the bathroom, I grabbed the mildewy washcloth, ready to scrub at the stain with what little strength my muscles had left. Strangely—and perhaps, finally, a little luckily—most of it hadn’t dried down, so I was able to swipe it up in a few overly-aggressive passes. All the willing to make it a tomorrow problem, I tucked the rag in the back corner of the desk and reached for the phone again.

But my finger touched something wet. I looked down to see a smear of blue on my ring finger. I must’ve missed a spot.

Too suddenly, everything was wrong.

My finger was throbbing and burning. I thought I had been grabbing the phone, I thought I was telling Blondie about the door, but there were spots in my eyes and I could hear my blood. And now the receiver was in its bed.

Did I call? I should call.

I stumbled and slammed my hip into the corner of the wooden desk. I saw mustard-colored carpet fibers. I was on the floor. It was itchy.

I reached for the telephone cord dangling off the side of the table. Who uses a corded phone anymore? My fingers snagged on its curly tail. It tumbled to the ground, landing behind the leg and right out of my reach. I hit the lip of the trashcan as my hand fell. It toppled over and vomited. A brown glass bottle and tiny white tube spilled out.

My eyes were foggy and I couldn’t read the label on the bottle anymore, but I recognized the warning of the bright yellow triangle.

I strained to reach for the phone again, but only my thumb twitched. The dial tone was both faint and all too loud, like all of my hearing abilities were transferred to one ear. Did I only have one ear? No, the other ear was working, it could hear the rhythmic thumping at my door.

It was breathing against my barricade. Just little jolting inhales and trembling releases. A wet, black nose poked through the crack, a furry lip caught on the frame, revealing sharp, yellowed teeth. It nudged at the door, pushing my duffels further away from the hinges. The whole snarling mouth was in the room now, its foaming saliva dripping onto the already stained shag carpet. An amber eye peeked out at me as a spindly leg stepped into the room, using its shoulder to wedge the door open just enough to slip the rest of its lithe body inside.

But then the leg was too long. And the joints were stretching. I heard the crack of bones and saw claws retreating into the skin of crooked fingers.

I had seen one before– coyotes didn’t look like that. They didn’t have bulging blue veins and bushy eyebrows. They didn’t smile like a man. There should have been fur, not flesh.

I tried to move again but even my heart did not have the energy to race.

As the man stepped forward and my eyes slipped shut, I heard my daddy’s voice one last time. Thumbs in the eyes, grab the muzzle, knee on the throat.

– Madison Britt