Dennis' heart skipped a beat as a deer ran across the antique gray cement road that tied Tucker to Mansfield. He swore and slowed his '69 Impala sweating his best silk shirt to ruin. The countryside was as flat as ever; but the darkness was strange, a dark greasy shade. It looked viscous and alive, like surging dark slime. Dennis lifted his foot from the accelerator, and prepared to drive back to Mansfield, until he spied something in the distance, a luminescence.

Dennis raced towards the dim light. His Chevy soon reflected the pallid glow emanating from the right hand side of the road, a neon sign announcing, "The White Castle Diner." Dennis swore again as he observed the pale light growing stronger and breaking against the hateful dark in spectral hues. Hyper-vigilant after the deer, he easily controlled his speeding Chevy into the parking lot of the diner.

Dennis knew for a fact that no such diner existed on the back road between Tucker and Mansfield. He pulled his keys out of the ignition, steadied his breathing, and stared at The White Castle Diner. He saw no one inside. Still, the diner's cold light seemed better to Dennis than the malevolent darkness that now threatened the parking lot. It was the hateful black miasma that convinced him. He opened the car door, and ran into the dinner, feeling terrified of the darkness, thick with unspoken menace.

The restaurant was empty. It looked and felt cold, cold as if the diner's incandescent neon light also emanated from the walls and floors, but more softly, with only a whisper of cold luminance. Two rows of beige leather upholstered booths ran parallel to a long counter set with napkins, flatware, and condiments. It looked and smelled too clean. The ambiance suggested surgery rather pot roast or burgers. Dennis walked to the counter, and sat on the four-legged stool closest to the door. A chalkboard on the wall behind the counter announced the Blue Plate Special: chilidogs. Dennis noticed an ashtray on the counter, pulled out his cigarettes, and thought, "What the hell? What's the worst thing that could happen in this lousy place?"

A flame from a vintage silver lighter appeared before his face. A pale, redheaded waitress behind the counter smiled a "flats" kind of smile, inviting him to light up, maybe more. Her eye makeup looked theatrical, but behind the false eyelashes and mascara, the green eyes flashed as lively as sin. Dennis lit his cigarette, inhaled slowly and deliberately, and tried not to seem too eager.

"Thank you, miss; there are so few joints that will let you light up inside, these days."

The waitress returned the lighter to her blouse pocket. The gesture emphasized the expanse of décolletage revealed by a strategic placement of buttons. Dennis worked at looking and smoking casually. He felt the tension born of sexual politics. He was keen on playing the sport.

"Surprised to see you, Mister. How did you manage to find me?"

She moved around and out from behind the counter, lighting her own cigarette and to Dennis' astonishment and delight, sat on the stool beside him.

"It does seem weird. I take this old back road pretty regularly, and I can't recall ever seeing this diner till tonight."

A huntsman's horn interrupted Dennis. At first, the sound reminded Dennis of foxhunts from movies and television. The horn slowly evolved into a wail, a banshee's cry out in the darkness; a different movie, Dennis thought with growing discomfort. The waitress sat nonplussed at the mordant sound of the horn. Dennis refused to show his fear. He could be as game as she, and stared back his challenge.

The waitress took a sultry puff of her lengthy, thin cigarette, the kind that reminded Dennis of long legged models in magazine adds. He shamelessly scoped her from head to toe. Her red hair was pulled back and held, not with the usual waitresses cap, but with a cowl of silver thread dotted with tiny stones the color of young shoots. The incongruity of her standard, starched uniform crowned with medieval elegance fascinated Dennis. Her cigarette smoke held the suggestions of cloves and other spices unknown to Dennis, stoking his excitement. The green of her eyes matched the stones glittering in her hair. Dennis fought a strong desire to rip away the cowl and let the red torrents loose and free. Dennis shook himself lightly, and resumed conversation.

"Really? You don't seem to have much in the way of clientele, if that is what you mean."

The waitress laughed, and then turned to face Dennis using the languid movement of an exotic dancer.

"You must be blessed and select of the Lady, herself. You found a side this night, the moonless night of the Hunt. The Horned One and his hounds race on the wind, hunting and making sport. You are lucky, young mortal."

The waitress drew another measured drag, staring at Dennis through half lidded eyes. The aroma of cloves and incense grew heavier with each new cloud of cigarette smoke that escaped her lips.

"The hunting, I understand, goes well."

Dennis stared at her dumbfounded. He stared until he heard the wind building and howling outside the iridescent walls of the dinner; or, was it merely the wind that howled? He turned his eyes and looked outside the large front window of the diner. He immediately saw Mr. Collins, Tucker's pharmacist, racing for his life, followed by a pack of enormous, black wolfhounds, and a solitary, mounted figure in pursuit.

"Oh my sweet Jesus!" Dennis whispered. The rider and dogs fell on Mr. Collins, and ripped him apart; but it was the antlers and serpentine legs that unmanned Dennis.

"Cernunnos likes them rare," said the waitress, laughing at Dennis until they both cried.

"I am Rhiannon, guest; stay the night, but don't expect to find Tucker in the morning."

Through his tears, Dennis heard the echoing laughter of the dark.