Christmas Eve was supposed to be chill and peaceful.

I'd planned it perfectly.

Lily's family would come over.

We'd sit around the fire pit, drink a few beers, and call it a night.

No drama, just a quiet evening at my place.

Tucked far enough from town to feel like we were on our own

little island. But now, as I sit here writing this, I can't shake the feeling that my life

changed forever that night. It all started normally enough. Around 7.30 p.m., I was out back clearing

out the fire pit. The snow crunched under my boots as I tossed

out last week's ashes and stacked fresh logs. It was cold, but the kind of cold you get used to

when you live in the Midwest, sharp but bearable. The air felt heavy, though, too still. Normally,

there'd be coyotes yipping in the distance,

maybe some wind stirring the trees. Tonight, nothing, just silence. Rusty, my German shepherd,

trotted along beside me, sniffing at the air like he'd caught a strange scent. I patted

his head absent-mindedly.

"'Relax, boy,' I said, though I was trying to convince

myself more than him. By the time Lily's parents pulled up in their truck, I'd managed to push

the weird feeling to the back of my mind. I greeted them, handed Mark a beer, and helped her mom

carry some casserole dish into the house.

For the next 20 minutes, I forgot about the stillness outside. We laughed, talked about

Christmas plans, and for a while, everything felt normal. At 8.30, I decided to step out and light

the fire. I grabbed the lighter, and Rusty followed me to the

...