In The Forest Of Harm by Sallie Bissell

to upright, healthy human beings.
    â€œJoin me in some lunch?” He broke off two tiny pieces of the cookie and tossed them beneath the tree. The birds remained motionless, their eyes glowering straight at him.
    â€œPicky little bastards, aren’t you?” Brank stuffed more Moon Pie in his mouth and chewed vigorously. Tossing them two crumbs had already been extravagant; he was not going to further waste his Moon Pie on such ungrateful creatures.
    Their gaze stayed on his face. His cheeks grew warm and he began to feel slightly uneasy, as if the birds knew something he didn’t. He patted the barrel of his gun.
    â€œDon’t forget who’s got the gun here, pals,” he muttered through his food.
    The larger buzzard folded its wings but continued to stare, its scrutiny sharp as the point of a knife.
    Brank was about to throw one of the loose chimney rocks at them when something else caught his attention. A new sound suddenly whispered through the woods. A step. Then a pause. Then the faintest rustle in the grass.
    â€œAhhhh.” He continued his conversation with the buzzards as he shifted his hearing to the woods. “I get it. You boys are hanging around because you figure you’ll soon be getting some meat to eat.”
    He kept his eyes on the birds, but dropped his food back in his sack and eased the gun onto his lap. He shoved a new shell in each chamber, then turned by inches to the right and peered into the surrounding forest. Tree trunks stood festooned with gold leaves while black grapevines dangled down like serpentine. Nothing unusual for a mild autumn day. Nothing out of the ordinary at all.
    Then he heard it again. From deep within the trees, the long, slow rumble of a bottle being rolled down a hall. The hair rose on the back of his neck. He’d heard that sound before. Trudy was here.
    Brank’s heart began to race as he squinted into the underbrush, trying to catch a glimpse of her huge amber eyes. “Here, Trudy, old girl,” he crooned softly as he curled a finger around both triggers of his gun.
    Again he heard the low, menacing rumble. He drew his legs up and balanced the gun on his left knee, waiting for her to make a move. Was she brave enough to attack him in the daylight, he wondered as his heart tripped and his hands grew slippery on the gun. He didn’t think so. Trudy, like the trolls, preferred to prey on him at night, when his eyes couldn’t pierce the darkness and his imagination made up the difference.
    Brank tried to keep the gun steady on his knee. It occurred to him that just as he had followed other buzzards in times past, this particular pair must follow Trudy, waiting for her scraps. With a sick lurch of his gut he realized that for the first time in his life, he himself was, at this moment, the short end of the food chain.
    â€œIf you’re thinking I’m gonna be lunch, you’re mistaken, old sis,” he whispered to the fiend hidden in the forest.
    He held his breath and concentrated on the trees. Gold and russet, the leaves shimmered in front of him, rustling like a woman’s gown. He sat rigid, waiting. The minutes dripped by. Sweat began to run into his eyes. He could hear the rapid thud of his own heart. His hands clutched the gun so tightly they began to shake. He’d just begun to think that maybe he’d imagined the whole thing when the weeds beneath a yellow buckeye gave a single swift shudder and a roar enveloped him like a freight train. All at once Trudy stood in front of him, not ten feet away.
    Huge hungry eyes now more green than amber pinned him where he sat. She was far bigger than he remembered. She crouched with her tail twitching, gauging the distance to him just as a house cat might measure a leap to a kitchen table. Shiny black lips curled away from long yellow fangs. Brank began to tremble. When he’d last shot Trudy, she hadn’t looked nearly so scary as this.
    EEEOOOOOOOWWWWW!
    Her