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"I hate to be a bother, but since you're out here checking up on me anyways...would you mind if I stuck with you for tonight?" You present the obvious question while grabbing your flashlight in preparation for a trek on foot. "I feel like we'd both be safer if we stuck together. Especially if these woods have such nasty critters in them like you say."
He looks at you with a twinkle of amusement in his eye, a raspy chuckle escaping from him that quickly turns into coughing. Quite the violent fit of coughing, even - specks of saliva coat his gloved fist in no time at all. Is that a hint of <span class="mu-r">blood</span> mixed in with it?
"Shit, old man, are you okay? You're not going to keel over and die on me right after introducing yourself, are you?" You ask in alarm, hopping out of the truck and slamming the door in your hurry over to him. He waves you off with a look of irritation on his face.
"Fuck off with that, I've had this cough for twenty years. The autumn chill irritates the tar in my lungs, that's all. Nothing I can't fix with a full pipe and a warm fire." He says, before clearing his throat and hocking a loogie composed of an unholy mixture of snot, saliva, blood, and you're pretty sure at least half a year's worth of tobacco tar. "Now if you're gonna come with me, then step to it. I'm not going to go slowly for your sorry ass."
"Don't worry about that, I don't think it'll be a problem." You say, rolling your eyes. You're certain you could run circles around the man if you wanted to. Part of you is tempted to do just that, but you refrain...for now. "So, while we walk...what exactly is out there in the woods that's so dangerous? And how do you go around avoiding them?"
"I reckon that shutting up is a good start." He scowls at you, rapping your left leg with his cane with a surprising amount of force. Damn thing stings. "Keep quiet as a mouse until we get to my cabin."
You frown at the advice, rubbing your leg where he hit you, but decide not to question his directions. The two of you start to walk through the woods in relative silence, your own flashlight being the only thing lighting your way.
He seems to be a slow and methodical man, sometimes stopping for a few minutes for seemingly no reason, usually in areas where the woods are on the quieter side. Of course, even then, the forest seems to be teeming with nightlife according to your ears and occasional glimpses of nocturnally-adapted eyes - the majority of your twenty-minute trek is a cacophony of insect sounds and rustling foliage. The keening wail of a distant elk startles you briefly, before Ishmael explains what it was under his breath and tells you to "Ignore it and stop being such a priss."
When you finally arrive at Ishmael's cabin, you're glad to see that it's in considerably better shape than your Grandfather's. You don't get much time to look at the exterior, other than noting that it's a log-and-brick construction and that it has fairly weathered shingles.
