It was March. March, and if ever there was a truer place for the old adage in like a lion, out like a lamb, the house sat at the heart of it. High on a hill, surrounded by miles of open land, it stood against the storm—a solitary shape swallowed by white.

The blizzard thickened, the wind growing restless. Snow lashed the north side of the house, piling against the walls, shifting like a living thing.

Dennis pulled on his coat, tension flickering across his face. “I need to check on the animals.”

His wife frowned. “Be careful, Denny. The animals aren’t worth getting yourself killed over.”

He gave her a small, reassuring smile. “Don’t worry, Cyn. I’ll be back before you know it.”

Dennis pulled back the curtain on the kitchen door, peering out into the storm. The barn light flickered dimly through the swirling snow—at least there was still power. He was grateful he’d buried the feed underground, though frost heaves were always a risk.

He glanced back at Cyndi and Little Denny, then stepped outside.

The door slammed shut, pulled by the wind, rattling the frame. Cyndi watched him grip the top rail of the fence between the house and the barn, steadying himself as he disappeared into the storm.

-=#=-

3:49 PM

It was getting dark, and Dennis still hadn’t returned.

Cyndi stood by the window, staring into the thickening snow. It shouldn’t have taken this long. Her fingers tightened against the fabric of her sleeve. No movement. No shifting shape in the distance.

She turned toward the kitchen doorway, where Little Denny stood at the baby gate, hands gripping the wooden bars. The gate was screwed tightly into the door frame—its twin secured the front entrance. He hadn’t figured out the deadbolts yet, but she knew that wouldn’t last much longer.

Her gaze flickered back outside. Still nothing.

Unease pressed against her ribs.

She pulled on her snowsuit, hat, and boots, then hesitated—just for a second—before reaching for her mittens.

One more glance out the window. No sign of him. The snow was only getting worse.

She pushed open the door. “I’ll be right back, honey,” she murmured to Little Denny. Then she stepped into the cold.

The wind stole her breath instantly.

Cyndi gripped the fence rail, pushing forward, each step unstable against the shifting drifts. The rabbit-wire garden fence had created a snow block—compact enough to hold her weight at first, until she lifted one foot. Suddenly, the other plunged through, dropping her knee-deep into ice.

She swallowed down the sharp, rising frustration, adjusting her stance before pushing onward.

No footprints. Dennis’ path had already vanished.

She reached the barn door, slid it open, and stepped inside.

Darkness pressed in.

She flipped on the light.

Empty.

The animals in the stalls stirred as she entered, lifting their heads in quiet expectation. Their troughs were empty. Their water was low. Had Dennis fed them?

Cyndi moved through the space, checking the tack room.

No Dennis.

She turned back toward the stalls, hesitating now—really looking. The food. The water. It should still be full.

Something was wrong.

She stepped back into the barn proper.

Then, for the first time, she noticed the ladder laying on the floor.

A strong gust rattled the barn walls.

Over her left shoulder, the wind pushed against the door, nudging it further open. For a brief moment, the gap widened, and another rush of snow spilled in, scattering white across the floorboards.

She turned instinctively, eyes flicking to the shifting doorway.

And then—something moved.

A slow, unnatural sway.

Above the ladder, an overhead shop light rocked on its metal conduit, its shade tilting at a strange angle. The rope draped over it pulled the fixture away from center, skewing the glow, warping the shadows. Each sway sent a jagged flicker skittering across the walls—elongating, stretching, breaking apart.

A deep wrongness seeped into the space.

Cyndi froze, breath shallow.

She looked up.

And screamed.