My grandmother and I moved into Apartment 3B at the historic Fenwick Building three weeks ago, adopting a stray hound named Buster who roamed the alley.
The following month, our new apartment on the south side of town felt different. It was a sunnier space, with high ceilings and wide windows overlooking a tree-lined street. No dark alleys, no unsettling silence.
Grandma Martha was settling in, her sewing machine now set up by a bright window. Buster, freed from the burden of an unsolved murder, was a different dog entirely—playful, energetic, just a normal, happy hound.
We had also adopted a new shelter dog, a scruffy terrier mix with intelligent eyes named Rusty. He was a sweet, docile dog, and a good companion for Buster.
It was 2:14 AM. I was in my new bedroom, tucked under a fresh quilt, almost asleep. My phone buzzed softly on my nightstand.
A text from Aunt Sarah: “Settling in safely, boys?”
I smiled, typing out a quick reply: “All good, Aunt Sarah. Quiet night.”
As I hit send, Rusty, who had been asleep on his mat beside my bed, suddenly shifted. His head snapped up, his ears twitching.
He rose slowly, his movements deliberate, his eyes fixed on something I couldn’t see.
He walked to the middle of the bedroom, directly beneath the ceiling beam. He stopped there, perfectly still, his body rigid.
Then, he let out a low, silent growl, a deep vibration in his chest that seemed to fill the room without making a sound. His gaze was fixed upwards, directly at the ceiling.
A sudden, sharp cold enveloped the room. My breath plumed. The digital clock on my phone, still open from Aunt Sarah’s text, registered a precipitous drop in temperature.
My blood ran cold.
Rusty stood his ground, growling silently at the ceiling, his shadow stretching across the floor, pointing to something unseen.
We thought moving across the city would leave the dark behind, but some shadows don’t belong to a room—they belong to the world.
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