The Show Must Go On! by P.J. Night Page A

have a clue what was waiting for her, at the edge of the darkness, so when she heard the scratching, she thought it was the stray cat that had been coming around. The one with the tattered ear and the hungry eyes.
    The sun was just about to set. She could see it still shining in the west, like an orange ball of fire on theverge of falling into space. So she thought, I’ll just put some food at the edge of the yard. For the cat. She poured a cup of kitty chow into a plastic bag and grabbed her coat. Then she walked out the back door, into the dying light, like it was no big deal, because it wasn’t . . . not yet.
    That was a mistake, she realized later. She should have told someone—anyone—that she was going outside. Into the twilight. By herself.
    At the edge of the yard, she looked for the cat by the tree where it usually waited for her. But tonight, the cat was nowhere. “Here, kitty, kitty,” she called softly, kneeling down and snapping her fingers like she always did.
    Still the cat did not appear.
    The girl sighed. The air was damp, as if the fog were rushing in faster tonight than usual, hardly waiting for the sun to finish setting before blanketing the woods in a thick mist that was impossible to see through. She felt so sorry for the poor cat, sleeping in the woods all alone, even when it was cold or windy or wet.
    Then she heard it again: the scratching. Just beyond the tree line. And—what was that? A whimper?
    A cry for help?
    The girl glanced behind her at the house, still all litup, so warm and cozy. She wanted to go back there.
    So why was she walking toward the woods?
    Because she couldn’t bear it, the thought that the cat was sick or hurt, or in trouble. If she could help the little cat, she would. Of course, she didn’t know then what was really in the woods.
    â€œHere, kitty,” she called again, pushing through the tree limbs. “I won’t hurt you. Here, kitty.”
    Silence.
    That the woods should be so chillingly quiet, the girl realized, was weird. Very weird. But instead of feeling afraid, she was curious. She should have been afraid.
    On she continued into the woods, all the way to the clearing where she’d spent so many summer nights on campouts, telling stories in the flickering light of a campfire. She knew that clearing as well as she knew her own bedroom, but she’d never seen it the way she did tonight.
    It was hard to see through the mist, but she could tell right away that the clearing was not empty.
    And whatever was in it was a lot bigger than a stray cat.
    The girl hid behind a thick-trunked tree, her heart thundering in her chest, and stared with wide eyes. She couldn’t have looked away even if she’d wanted to.
    Well, to be honest, she did want to look away. But her eyes were locked on the creature, and she wondered, suddenly, if she was dreaming.
    But she knew that that was nothing more than a wish, an empty hope. Because nothing had ever felt this real—from the painful pounding of her heart to the bitter taste of fear in the back of her throat. She swallowed, hard, and held on to the tree trunk for support.
    The monster was eating . . . something. Dark red liquid dripped from its mouth, soaking into the dirt beneath it. The girl’s stomach lurched, but still she did not move.
    And she did not look away.
    Then, to her horror, the creature reared up on its hind legs at the same moment the mist cleared. In the dim twilight, she saw more of it than she ever wanted to:
    An enormous lizardlike body, covered in scales and slime. Two tremendous, leathery wings, folded tight against its back. Two thick, stumpy arms; the end of each one curved into a razor-sharp talon, dripping . . . something. Something foul. Back legs that rippled with muscle. A knobby, bumpy head, with two red-rimmed, beady eyes, and a mouthful of fangs. And a tail that was studded with spikes as long as the girl’s