The Hellhound Guardian
By Olivia Salter
Word Count: 1,896
Beneath San Diego’s starless night sky, two desperate men are about to learn that some graves are better left untouched.
The air was thick and salty from the distant ocean, a familiar coastal breeze sweeping through the old cemetery on the outskirts of San Diego. Miguel tightened his grip on the rusted shovel as he cast a wary glance at his partner, Frank. Under the flickering yellow light of their flashlights, the ancient tombstones cast long shadows that seemed to stretch and coil in the darkness.
They moved quickly but clumsily, driven by a greed they'd long convinced themselves was worth it. Just one more hit—one more "collection," as they called it. This time, they’d scored big intel: a wealthy family crypt, barely touched in over a century. Frank’s whispers were quick and cold.
"Keep going, Miguel. The sooner we get this done, the sooner we’re out."
Miguel nodded, shovel hitting the damp earth. He tried to shake off the unsettling weight in the pit of his stomach. It was just nerves, he told himself. But then his shovel clinked against something solid. He froze, and a sudden chill prickled his skin. They’d reached it.
Frank grinned, the flashlight casting shadows across his face, giving him a ghoulish grin as he hoisted the heavy coffin lid. Inside, the figure was wrapped in ancient, brittle cloth. Gold bracelets and necklaces glittered in the beam of light, draped over thin, bony wrists.
They began pulling at the jewelry, stuffing their bags full. But as Miguel reached for a heavy pendant, his hand froze—beneath the corpse’s lifeless fingers was a strange, weathered charm. It seemed out of place, ancient beyond even the tomb. The charm was shaped like a snarling hound, eyes hollow and mouth open as if mid-howl. He pocketed it with a nervous shrug, brushing off a sudden, irrational sense of dread.
And then he heard it—a distant growl. Low, guttural, echoing from deep within the cemetery.
They exchanged glances, breath fogging in the night air.
“Just the wind, right?” Frank’s voice wavered.
Miguel nodded, but his heart hammered against his ribs. In the stillness, the growling persisted, moving closer, each snarl vibrating through the earth beneath their feet.
They shoved their finds into their bags, barely looking up as they ran away. But with every step, the growling grew louder, sharper, mingling with a new sound—labored breathing, a frantic panting that seemed to draw nearer with each heavy breath.
Miguel stopped, clenching his flashlight, casting it back toward the grave. Nothing. Just shadows swallowing shadows. But then, his beam landed on something—two massive paw prints, embedded in the soft soil, trailing behind them.
His blood ran cold.
The panting was clearer now, the sound of claws move quickly against the dirt. Without a word, he bolted, feet pounding the ground as he tore through the narrow graveyard paths, Frank barely keeping up. Behind them, a hideous snarl split the night—a wild sound, primal and hungry, filled with an anger that made Miguel’s skin crawl. It was close, much closer than it should’ve been, echoing off the mausoleums and tombstones like a terrible, living shadow.
They ducked between crumbling headstones, flashlight beams swinging wildly as they tried to find a way out. The cemetery’s paths twisted like a maze, every turn taking them deeper into a abyss of graves and memorials. The creature’s growls grew louder, each one vibrating in Miguel's chest, rattling his bones as if something ancient and dark was clawing its way toward them.
Frank stumbled, his flashlight clattering to the ground, casting a shaky glow on the cemetery wall. And then they saw it—hulking, low to the ground, with eyes like molten embers burning through the dark. The creature was the size of a bear, yet its shape was distinctly canine, twisted and warped like something stitched together from nightmare and shadow. Mangy fur clung to its body, taut over protruding ribs, and its mouth hung open, revealing rows of jagged, impossibly sharp teeth. It looked almost ghostly, an abomination made of mist and darkness, yet disturbingly solid.
The hound’s red eyes fixed on them, and Miguel could feel the weight of its gaze, a ferocious intelligence simmering behind the beast’s monstrous face.
“Run, Miguel! Now!” Frank’s voice was strangled with terror, his body already in motion.
Miguel didn’t hesitate. They sprinted through the winding paths, the growling beast in pursuit, its footfalls heavy and relentless. Miguel’s lungs burned, his breath coming in sharp gasps. His hand tightened around the charm he’d stolen, and with a sickening clarity, he realized it was warm, almost pulsing as if it were alive.
The creature was closer now, its hot breath snapping at their heels. Frank glanced back and screamed, tripping over a broken gravestone. He crashed to the ground, clutching his ankle, his face pale with terror as he tried to scramble to his feet.
Miguel skidded to a stop, torn between helping his friend and saving himself. But the choice was made for him. The beast’s jaws snapped shut around Frank’s leg, dragging him back, his scream piercing the night air. Miguel watched, frozen in horror as Frank’s flashlight clattered away, casting one last glimpse of Frank’s face contorted in agony, his hands clawing at the earth.
The hound’s eyes flashed to Miguel, blood on its muzzle, as if daring him to run.
Miguel’s legs moved before his mind could process, sprinting through the cemetery, heart pounding as he dodged around broken headstones and ducked beneath low-hanging branches. The air seemed colder now, each breath a ragged, icy gasp as he desperately searched for an escape.
The beast’s growls echoed through the night, always just behind him, closer with every step. In the madness of it all, he clutched the charm in his pocket, his mind racing as he wondered if it held the key to his survival—or his doom. He yanked it out, holding it up as he stumbled backward, staring down at the carved hound with its empty eyes.
He looked up, and there it was—the beast, standing between him and the cemetery gate, its eyes locking onto the charm, its growl deepening into something almost… satisfied. The creature began to advance, its steps slow, savoring every inch.
Desperation surged through Miguel, and he flung the charm at the hound, shouting a hoarse, terrified plea. The charm landed with a soft thud in the dirt between them.
The hound stopped. Its molten gaze shifted from Miguel to the charm. For a moment, it stood still, its head cocking slightly, as if amused. Then, with a final, bone-chilling growl, it lunged, snapping up the charm in its jaws, crunching it between its teeth with a sickening crack.
Miguel didn’t wait to see what would happen next. He sprinted toward the gate, heart hammering as he burst through to the road beyond. He didn’t stop, didn’t look back, just ran until the night swallowed the cemetery behind him.
He stumbled home, his body aching, the memory of Frank’s screams haunting his mind. But as he reached his apartment, he stopped dead. Scratched into his front door were three deep claw marks, fresh and ragged.
And in the silence, he heard it—a low, steady panting, drifting up from the darkness below.
Miguel’s breath caught in his throat as he stared at the door, his pulse pounding in his ears. The claw marks were raw, splintered wood curling up from deep grooves, fresh enough that flakes of paint were still peeling off. And there, just beyond the threshold, was that terrible panting—slow and patient, like the sound of something that had all the time in the world.
He backed away, scanning the hall. Everything was silent, eerily still. The neighbors’ doors were closed, lights off, the usual late-night murmur of the building entirely absent. It was as if he were the only soul left in this place.
Miguel fumbled for his phone, fingers trembling as he dialed. But just as he raised it to his ear, the line went dead—a crackle of static followed by silence.
He glanced back at his door. Slowly, his mind pieced together the unthinkable truth: he hadn’t escaped. He’d only brought the creature with him. His apartment felt impossibly far, the safety he’d longed for now a fragile illusion.
Miguel swallowed hard and moved to the nearest stairwell, descending into the dimly lit parking garage. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting shadows that stretched and flickered across the concrete floor. His footsteps echoed, each step louder than the last as he weaved between the rows of cars. His hand rested on the hood of his car, ready to open it, to escape, when a noise froze him in place—a soft, wet scraping sound, like claws dragging over stone.
The hound stepped into the light at the far end of the garage. Its fur looked even more matted now, dripping with something dark that Miguel could only assume was Frank’s blood. The creature’s eyes gleamed, unblinking, with that same merciless hunger, and its lips curled back to reveal bloodstained fangs.
Miguel’s eyes darted around the garage, his mind racing. There was nowhere left to run, and something inside him knew that this creature would pursue him to the ends of the earth. He could almost hear a voice whispering from some dark, ancient corner of his mind: You took from the dead, and now the dead will take from you.
With a final, desperate plea, Miguel straightened, his eyes fixed on the hound. "I give it back," he whispered, though his voice barely trembled. "I give it all back."
The creature paused, head tilting ever so slightly, as if it understood. Then, it lowered itself, muscles coiling, ready to pounce.
Miguel’s heart pounded as he reached into his pocket, pulling out every trinket, every stolen item he’d kept from his countless graveyard jobs. He dropped them one by one onto the cold cement, each piece clattering like shattered bones in the silence.
The hound watched him, unblinking, its eyes narrowing with something that looked like satisfaction.
Miguel took a step back, his hands raised, hoping against hope that he’d offered enough, that he’d fulfilled whatever cursed debt he owed.
The creature’s gaze lingered on him, a silent, terrible judgment. Then, with a final, guttural growl, it turned away, slinking back into the shadows, its form dissolving into the darkness until only its red, hateful eyes remained. They hovered there, watching him, a silent promise of retribution should he stray from the path again.
And then, as suddenly as it had come, the beast was gone, leaving Miguel alone in the flickering light of the garage.
He stumbled back to his apartment, heart still racing, legs weak with fear. That night, he left every window and door open, watching the darkness, waiting. But the creature never returned. Its vengeance had been satisfied—at least, for now.
But even as days turned into weeks, Miguel could still feel those eyes upon him, watching from the shadows, waiting. And whenever he felt the old urge rise—to take, to steal, to defile the graves he once haunted—he would remember the hound’s snarling face, the scent of decay, and the whisper that lingered in his mind:
Some debts are paid in flesh.
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