And what a sunset it was. The sky burned with color, and around a dozen others joined us in silent awe. As if the scene weren’t magical enough, a lone harpist had hauled a full-sized harp up the mountain to serenade the fading light. The atmosphere was otherworldly—until it wasn’t.

When darkness fell, most of the crowd trickled away, leaving the Empress and me, plus a handful of couples, scattered about. Most stayed huddled in their cars some twenty yards away—wise, it turns out, given the night’s chill and what was to come. Only one other couple braved the open meadow opposite us, unprotected from the elements and whatever else might share the space. Hindsight, of course, being perfect, we wonder now if those sitting safely behind their windshields suspected what we would soon encounter.

The first hours passed uneventfully. No UFOs. No mysterious lights. Just a meteor—or perhaps space debris—streaking across the heavens in a brilliant display of celestial fire. Satellites and commercial planes drifted by, but otherwise, nothing.

We were seated on a picnic table, about fifty yards from the mountainside slope, eyes trained upward, when the Empress suddenly stiffened. Her hand clamped my arm. “I hear something coming down the mountain,” she whispered. Footsteps. Heavy. Deliberate.

I followed her gaze and, with my own sharper night vision, caught it first: “I see something coming down the mountain!” My eyes had fully adjusted to the dark. There was no mistaking it—something was running, fast, directly toward us. A towering, shadowy biped. Giant strides, silent but for the crunch of rocks beneath its feet.