Bad Medicine

Mac was taking his morning constitutional on the path that led sideways up the mountain. The morning air was cold and clear, and the path's sudden turns took him out onto ledges where the pines dropped abruptly away, and the view of the town cupped in the little valley below made him stop a moment to
admire it.
Coming around one of those abrupt turns, he saw a hiker standing at one of the natural vantages, looking down at Silverpan in all its quiet 6:00 am glory. Tourists were the town's mainstay, and though it was too early in the year for snow and the influx of skiers, it was still a place for those who liked hiking, camping and fishing. Mac was irritated at the interruption to his morning solitude, but prepared himself to be neighborly if he had to. This might be one of the guests at the hotel.
Coming up the path, Mac saw that the hiker was facing away from him. The sun hadn't quite reached this part of the mountain and the ledge was still cloaked in predawn shadow, so it was difficult to make out anything else. The hiker didn't turn around at the approach of the big elderly black man, who was making
no effort to be quiet.
Mac stopped a few feet behind him, not wanting to startle him, and said, "Good morning."
The hiker turned and Mac saw his eyes. They were twin coals of white fire in empty sockets, unearthly,
impossible, and glowing with a cold heat. Mac froze, caught by surprise and utterly vulnerable. Then the last edge of the sun topped the peak on the other side of the valley, and yellow dawn light washed the ledge, dissolving the hiker in its radiance.
Mac stood there a moment, considering the empty ledge, the smudged imprint of hiking boots in the dirt and pine needles. Then he shook his head in disgust and said to himself, "I can tell right now this is gonna be a hell of a day.