The Walker by Francesco Levato

The growling was ragged and wet, like a frenzy of teeth tearing a child’s beloved toy apart. It set my senses on edge, broke the neighbourhood’s pre-dawn stillness—and it was getting closer.

The pack rounded the corner, thundering into the haze of the streetlight. As it closed on me, I could make out individual forms; dog-like, but far too big for the leashes they strained against—and their eyes, too much like embers. Behind them dragged a corpse, still clutching the leashes.

I felt lightheaded, insubstantial. Who walks dogs at devil’s hour? Why was the corpse wearing my clothes?