A Word from Tam Paradiso, Hostile Hunter:
The smell of the beast was overwhelming, mixing with new-mown grass and my own blood. He growled a successful snarl and lunged toward me again. Trapped against a headstone, with other hostiles on the way, I was sure this would be it. My unremarkable life would end on a random Tuesday night. And in a damn graveyard. H.P. Lovecraft would be rolling over with the irony. Or was it symmetry? I always get those two mixed up.