I've been living out here in the Appalachian Mountains for most of my life,

and I always thought I knew what to expect once the sun went down.

Coyotes yipping in the distance, maybe a black bear rustling around.

Nothing much shakes me.

But on this night, everything changed.

Let me start by saying my evening had been uneventful, just chores and a quick dinner before midnight rolled around. Jack's, my retriever,

was curled up by the fireplace like he always is. He's the most relaxed dog on the planet,

rarely even barks unless the mailman shows up. That's why I nearly dropped my coffee

when I heard this growl coming from him, deep and raw, unlike anything I'd heard before.

I glanced at him and saw he was standing rigid, hackles raised, eyes fixed on the window.

I couldn't see anything but my own reflection in the glass, and I tried

to shrug it off, mumbling something like, easy, buddy. But inside I was rattled. I've never seen

Jacks look that tense, tail-stiff, nose practically glued to the window. It was enough to get my

heart pounding. Soon, I realized I still had to lock up my workshop

down the slope behind the house. Normally, this isn't a big deal, just a quick trip in the dark

with a flashlight, but the way Jacks was acting, let's just say I was on edge. Still, I convinced

myself it was no big deal. I grabbed my coat, clicked on the flashlight, and headed out.

Jacks insisted on coming, practically pressing against my leg with every step.

Outside, the air felt strange. I couldn't place why.

Maybe it was too still. No crickets. No wind through the branches, just a heavy quiet. Halfway to

the workshop, Jacks let out another warning growl that made my stomach tighten. Before I could turn on

my heel, I noticed the workshop door was slightly open, even though I was sure I'd closed it earlier.

...