HP: Fantastic Beasts And The Right Way To Use Them

"The fishing is really good today," Roque murmured, unhooking another plump salmon and tossing it into the bucket with a satisfying splash.

Late night had bled into the witching hour, but by the river, time seemed to stand still. The salmon run was nearly over, yet the fish were biting as if possessed by starving ghosts. He hadn't even noticed the sun go down.

A wry smile touched his lips. If his neighbor, Clark, knew how many he'd caught this afternoon, the man would turn green with envy. He'd heard Clark hadn't caught a thing a few days back and, in a fit of stubborn pride, had drunk a few mouthfuls of river water, declaring he had to bring something back. The stunt had landed him in the city hospital with a stomachache, where he was probably still lying in bed, grumbling.

The thought of his old friend's jealous, twisted face made Roque's smile deepen. He'd likely catch an earful from his wife for being out so long, but a bucket brimming with fresh salmon ought to smooth things over.

Thinking this, Roque raised his hand, tilting his wrist to catch the faint moonlight on his watch.

The smile on his face froze, then vanished.

"One o'clock?"

He shot up from his folding chair as if jolted by electricity, scrambling to pack his fishing gear. He had thought it was ten at the latest. How had it gotten so late? If his wife knew he was still out, would he even be allowed back in the house?

The thought spurred him on, and he hurried down the familiar path with his bucket, his pace quickening into a near-jog. There were no streetlights here, no cars to light the way, but he knew this riverside trail so well he could walk it with his eyes closed.

And yet, tonight, the oppressive darkness felt different. The waning moon cast long, skeletal shadows, and an involuntary chill snaked its way down his spine. The primal fear of the dead of night, a fear buried deep in human genes, began to stir in his mind.

He tried to push it away, but his thoughts uncontrollably dredged up horror scenes from movies, and then, the unsettling rumor that had been circulating through town.

A shadow, they said, that hunted in the darkness. It attacked those who stayed out too late, or those who were sound asleep in their beds. People who survived an encounter with the shadow fell gravely ill. Some had even disappeared, leaving only a cryptic letter behind. And although one man was found a few days later, his "disappearance" chalked up to a tryst with a lover, the story did nothing to quell the town's fear.

Roque shivered, trying to force the tales from his mind, but the fear lingered, a cold knot in his gut. The moonlight, already dim, seemed to be growing darker still, as if something was slowly blotting it out from above.

The thought sent a fresh wave of unease through him. He didn't dare look up. The only thing he could do was move faster, his hurried walk breaking into a frantic run.

Suddenly, a distant flash of lightning split the sky, illuminating the world in a stark, momentary glare. Seconds later, a low rumble of thunder followed, and large, cold raindrops began to splatter against the back of his hand.

Feeling the rain, Roque let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. Dark clouds. It was just dark clouds covering the moon. The scientific explanation soothed him, but the relief was fleeting.

The patter of rain was all around him now, a steady shower just heavy enough to soak a man through.

But he didn't feel a single drop on his head.

He wasn't wearing a hat. Why was the rain falling on his hands and on the path, but leaving his hair completely dry?

Crack.

The sound of a snapping branch echoed from the woods nearby. A fox? A wild dog? Or… something else?

Just as the wrongness of the situation began to set in, a gust of wind swept past him. It grew stronger, making the hem of his cloak flap wildly in the dark.

Cloak… hem?

His body went rigid. Terror, sharp and absolute, flooded his veins.

He never wore a cloak. He wasn't wearing one now.

This thing, fluttering in the wind behind him… where did it come from?

"Ah!"

A raw scream ripped from his throat. He dropped everything—the fishing rod, the bucket of salmon—and fled, a madman bolting through the night. The rain now lashed down on him, the biting cold and sheer terror stiffening his limbs, but he didn't dare stop. He just ran, his lungs burning, his heart hammering against his ribs. The only mercy was that his scream seemed to have startled the thing; it was no longer chasing him.

He maintained his frantic pace until, finally, he saw the welcome glow of streetlights ahead. Stumbling onto the town's main road, he risked a glance back.

The path behind him was silent. Empty. Nothing moved but the falling rain.

He watched for a long moment, the adrenaline beginning to recede, and finally let out a shuddering sigh of relief. His legs gave out, and he collapsed against a lamppost, gasping for breath as the exhaustion of his frantic escape washed over him.

After a long while, strength returned to his limbs, and he began the shaky walk home.

The key slid silently into the lock. Soaked to the bone, Roque slipped inside, turned on the living room light, and collapsed onto the sofa. His wife would be asleep by now. He'd be sleeping here tonight.

He would definitely catch a cold, but compared to that terrifying shadow, a cold was nothing. It was just a pity about his fishing gear, and all that salmon… The regret was a dull ache beneath the lingering fear.

Driven by an exhaustion so profound it felt like a physical weight, his consciousness began to blur. His last waking thought was of the corn he needed to take to market in the morning. Luckily, the town was never bothered by mice…

He didn't know how long he slept, but in the hazy space between dream and waking, he felt something pressing down on him.

He shivered, his eyes fluttering open to complete, suffocating darkness.

But he had left the light on.

"Mmmph!"

Raw fear seized him again. He tried to scream for help, but his mouth was covered, his cries muffled into faint, whimpering sounds. He tried to struggle, to fight, but his body was pinned, his limbs refusing to obey.

It was the shadow. It had found him.

The town legends screamed in his mind: its favorite targets were people who stayed out late, and people who were sound asleep. Tonight, he was both.

Despair washed over him. His wife was still upstairs. If this thing killed him, would it go for her next? A wave of crushing regret hit him. Why had he gone fishing? If he had just stayed home…

Just as he felt his life slipping away, he heard the soft creak of a window opening.

A blast of cold, post-rain air rushed into the room, clearing his muddled thoughts. At the same moment, the crushing weight on his body vanished. The darkness before his eyes receded, replaced by the cool, bright light of the incandescent lamp.

Stunned, Roque shot up, gasping for air as if he had just surfaced from a deep, dark water. He looked frantically around the room. There was no shadow. Nothing.

The night's terror had utterly drained him. He believed he would never forget the feeling of being helpless, of his own body turned into a prison.

A wave of impossible drowsiness rolled over him, and he lay back down, too exhausted to think. The wind from the open window was cold; he'd probably be even sicker tomorrow.

Amidst his muddled thoughts, his consciousness grew blurry. He was just so tired.

And then, right before sleep claimed him completely, he thought he heard a soft, young voice whisper a single, final word from the darkness.

"Oblivion."

(End of Chapter)

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