On Tuesdays,
she got home after dark, which she hated.
It was easier
when her farm dog Hercules was alive, and followed her everywhere, ready to
rush forward and protect her from anything.
But now, it was
just her, and it seemed darker than ever.
Tonight, as she
approached the bridge between the house and the barn, she saw tendrils of
darker-than-dark climbing up onto the treads, and a soft pressure on her back
steered her to the edge and the long drop to below.
Then she heard
the unmistakable padding of Hercules’ feet behind her, and everything was fine.
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