He knows of her presence almost as soon as she steps foot in the marsh, the normally loud inhabitants quieting as she passes, no doubt watching her in hopes of finding a meal. He follows the silences, knowing that her scent will be of little help to him, not with the harsh reek of rotting flesh flooding his nose. She has chosen a particularly bad place tonight, a small trail meandering from the main path, thick with carpet bogs and ending abruptly in a large mass of something like quicksand. Does she know of the danger? He doubts it, holding tightly to the belief that only he is familiar with the dangerous terrain, that he alone can navigate in this blackness with no fear of the treacherous ground. He is the ghoul, and this murky Underworld knows him, will not steal away the life of a corpse son.

He wonders if she will die before he can reach her, dragged under the earth to rest with the countless others who gambled with their lives here. He hopes not, hopes that she will be aware enough to keep from plunging into a pool, for now anyway. Once he arrives she may die however she wishes, so long as he can watch, can stand and listen to the angel chorus of her last gasping breaths. It will be beautiful, he knows, and maybe he will keep her, drag pieces of bone and flesh back to his lair, another member of his captive audience, a friend who will never ever leave.

Finally he finds her, slow gait betraying weakness to his pitiless eyes, and he allows his great tail to lash in delight. She will be easy prey, tired or injured or both, and probably close to blind in this eternal night. Even his vision is affected, making it difficult for him to see much beyond shapes. But she is moving, and that is enough for him, each step helping him to see exactly where she is. In his confidence, he decides to play, to force her into a game of terror. She might even run, he thinks, smiling to himself. Then he can chase her, let her know exactly what happens to those who trespass where they are not wanted.

As silently as he can he steps from his hiding place, waiting until he is on the trail behind her before purposefully splashing one hoof in the murky water, skimming his tail over the surface to mimic the sound of something swimming, rising from dark depths in search of food. Then a half rear, bringing his weight back down with a dull thump. Sounds, he knows, can be much worse that anything else, causing the mind to race with imagined horrors.

And, of course, if she turns around he will be there, a flesh-and-blood monster, cruel and merciless.

In the darkness, the ghoul laughs.