Neosho

Deputy Ron Wilson was just leaving the hospital emergency room after finishing a report on a car accident over near Camp Crowder when he heard the howl lift into the night air. The sound made him shiver. He had never heard anything like it and suddenly felt cold all over. He scrambled back to his patrol car and headed in the direction of the noise. One block past the hospital he saw Jonathon Grayson, owner of the local funeral home, standing outside in his robe with a flashlight in his hand. The Deputy pulled up and rolled down his window.
“You hear that Ron?” Mr. Grayson said.
“Sure did Mr. Grayson,” the deputy replied.
“What in the —” Mr. Grayson was cut off as the horrible sound echoed across the darkness again.
“Get back in your house and lock your doors Mr. Grayson,” the deputy said.
“Sounds like it’s coming from over near the park. You be careful Ron!” Grayson yelled as the deputy’s patrol car accelerated down the street.
“Newton County 87 en route to investigate a disturbance at Big Spring Park, you copy Doris?”
“Roger that 87. Any idea what it is Ron?” Doris asked, her scratchy voice coming back over the radio speaker in his patrol car.
“I’ll let you know as soon as I know. Sounded like some kinda dog or coyote; real spooky though. I don’t know,” the deputy replied.
“I’ve tried to tell you Ron, you’ve got to stop going to see all those horror pictures over at the Granby drive-in with Laura. I knew pretty soon you’d start hearing things,” Doris laughed over the radio.
“Very funny Doris. County 87 out.” He pulled up to the park and turned on his searchlight, scanning the grounds but could not see any movement. Streetlights lit the front of the park where he was sitting but did not reach the area around the spring. He got out of the car and went to his trunk to retrieve a large flashlight and his rifle. Straining to see, he moved out across the great expanse of lawn and kept his flashlight off so he would not startle anything before he could identify it. Slowly the dark, stone outcropping above the spring came into view, a dark mass frowning at him from one hundred yards away. He stopped and listened. There was a faint bubbling noise coming from the spring and his eyes followed the sound until he spotted a disturbance on the surface of the water under the stone. He approached to 50 yards. It had been barely audible over the sound of the spillway but as he stood there, three grey masses slipped from under the stone and broke the surface of the water, illuminated in the moonlight. They stayed floating there for a moment before they stood up. Terror seized him in the deep recesses of his mind, and he had a sinking feeling in his stomach, not wanting to believe what his eyes were telling him. There, in the center of the spring stood three very large, very hideous looking dogs that were hairless and gray, with impossibly long snouts and bodies that had odd shaped bones sticking out from under their thin pale skin, like the timbers of a broken kite pushing through paper. He froze. They had not seen him. Their bones seemed to be constantly moving beneath their skin and they snarled, bearing long fangs. They whimpered as though in pain. The water moved again and another larger form came from under the rock. It stood up with slow purpose and seemed to stretch as it took in a breath, bubbling and growling as it exhaled. It stood like a man and was covered in a hooded cloak with small wisps of steam rising off of its shoulders and head in the humid summer air. It too seemed to be in constant movement beneath its cloak and was making soft sounds like wounded animal in agony, trying not to be heard. The Deputy could see nothing else.
A deep raspy, wheezing voice came from beneath the hood. “Find the girl!” it said, sucking in breath. Its hand moved and the sudden crack of a whip echoed across the park. The lead hound cried in pain, fireworks of water exploding in the moonlight where the whip made contact with the grey flesh. The other two screamed and lunged forward in the water as well. Fear gripped the deputy and he began to retch. The dark hood snapped around and looked straight at him. Ron turned to run, but there, standing between him and his car, was another of the nightmare hounds, head down, bearing long teeth and growling. Deputy Ron Wilson, trembling uncontrollably, tried to raise his rifle — He never fired a shot.

“Newton County 87, copy…? Newton County 87, this is dispatch, do you copy…? Ron…? You there Ron…?” the radio crackled across the silence of the night from the open door of the patrol car. There was no answer.