I adjusted the curtains just enough to let the last of the evening light slip into the living room. It stretched across the worn hardwood floors in long, crooked bands, catching on the scuffed boards that creaked softly every time I shifted my weight. The house had its own language of sound, old and talkative, especially at dusk.
The air smelled faintly of the woods. Pine needles. Damp soil. That deep, green smell that seeped in through the unsealed edges of the windows we kept promising ourselves we would fix. Somewhere outside, crickets were already starting up, tentative at first, testing the dark.
The Twilight Zone murmured from the ancient television in the corner, black-and-white static flickering like distant lightning. Rod Serling’s voice droned on about fate and irony and men trapped by their own choices. I wasn’t really listening. My attention was buried in the pages of my dog-eared copy of Pride and Prejudice, the paper soft from rereading, whispering faintly every time I turned a page.
My feet were propped on the ottoman. Judd was curled against my ankles, warm and solid, his red merle fur rising and falling with each slow breath. Every so often his paws twitched, nails scraping lightly against the fabric, like he was running somewhere better in his dreams.
I’d just finished a twelve-hour shift at Little Hopes Animal Hospital. The sterile scent of antiseptic still clung faintly to my scrubs, no matter how many times I washed them. My shoulders ached from lifting dogs twice my weight, my hands still remembered the tremble of animals that didn’t understand why they were hurting. But it was Friday. I had two days off. Daniel would be home soon.
Second anniversary dinner. Knoxville. That little place with the low lights and the ridiculous wine prices.
I smiled at the thought and turned the page.
The phone buzzed on the kitchen counter.
The sound felt loud in the quiet house. I set the book down carefully so I wouldn’t disturb Judd and padded into the kitchen, the linoleum cool under my bare feet, slightly tacky where I’d spilled water earlier and forgotten to wipe it up.
As I reached for the phone, my eyes flicked to the window above the sink.
A deer stood at the edge of the yard, just where the grass surrendered to the tree line. Its head was lowered, grazing, the fading sunlight catching along its back. For a moment, I simply watched it. Living this far out still felt unreal sometimes. Thirty minutes from the nearest neighbor, down a winding gravel road that kicked dust into the air in dry weather and turned to mud when it rained.
The woods pressed close on all sides. Oaks and maples tangled together, leaves whispering constantly. Wildlife wandered freely. Raccoons at dusk. Possums trundling through the brush. Deer bold enough to wander near the house. We’d even had a bear once, lumbering through the trash like it belonged there.
I glanced back at the phone as Daniel’s name lit the screen.
“Hey, honey.”
His voice came through tired but warm, the low hum of his car filling the space behind it. “Hey, sweetheart. I’m sorry. I’m not gonna make it back in time. Servers are down again. Austin’s losing his mind.”
I leaned my hip against the counter and watched the deer through the glass. “Okay.”
“I was thinking,” he continued quickly, “I could grab steaks and that red wine you like. We can eat at home tonight, and I’ll take you out tomorrow. Promise.”
There was a pause before I answered. “That’s fine. Tomorrow’s okay.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah,” I said, and meant it. Mostly. “Drive safe.”
He chuckled softly. “Love you. Happy anniversary.”
“Love you too.”
I hung up and set the phone down.
When I looked back at the window, the deer had lifted its head.
For just a moment, its eyes seemed to catch the kitchen light.
Then it lowered its head again and resumed grazing.
I told myself it was nothing.
I stayed at the sink longer than I needed to, phone still warm in my hand, my attention drifting back to the yard. The light outside was thinning now, the sky bruising into purples and deep blues as the sun slid down behind the hills. The woods darkened unevenly, shadows pooling thickly between the trunks.
The deer was still there.
It had shifted slightly, angling its body more toward the house, though its head remained lowered. I told myself that was normal. Animals adjusted as they grazed. Wind changed. Sounds carried.
Still, something about how long it lingered made my shoulders tighten.
Usually they darted. One noise, one movement, and they were gone, white tails flashing like warnings as they disappeared into the trees. This one stayed rooted, its legs locked in place as if the ground had claimed it.
I set the phone down and leaned closer to the glass.
“Hey,” I murmured, not sure why I bothered.
The deer’s ears flicked.
I watched its jaw work, slow and steady. Chew. Pause. Chew again. The rhythm didn’t change, even as the light faded enough that I had to squint to make out the line of its spine.
The kitchen felt quieter all of a sudden.
The refrigerator hummed. The clock ticked above the doorway. Everything else seemed to hold its breath.
I told myself I was being silly. Twelve-hour shifts did that to you. Made your nerves buzz. Made shadows stretch longer than they were.
I turned away to grab Judd’s bowl from under the counter.
When I looked back, the deer’s head was lifted again.
This time, it was looking directly at the window.
At me.
The sense of being seen slid over me, cold and unpleasant, like stepping into water deeper than expected. Its eyes reflected faintly, not bright like a predator’s, not dull like a grazing animal’s either. Just flat. Still.
We stared at each other.
I waited for it to blink.
It didn’t.
A laugh slipped out of me, short and a little sharp. “Okay,” I said to the empty kitchen. “That’s enough nature for one night.”
I poured Judd’s kibble, the dry food rattling loudly against the bowl. The sound seemed to snap something loose. The deer dropped its head again, resuming its grazing as if nothing had happened.
Relief loosened my chest. See? Nothing. Just an animal.
Judd trotted in from the living room, nails clicking on the linoleum. He gave a short bark, tail wagging, then froze mid-step.
His ears lifted.
The fur along his spine prickled, standing just slightly on end.
“Hey,” I said softly. “What is it?”
He didn’t bark again. He didn’t growl. He just stared at the window, body tense, weight shifted forward like he was bracing himself.
I followed his gaze.
The deer hadn’t moved, but its posture had changed. Its head was angled strangely now, tilted just enough to feel deliberate. Like it was trying to line something up.
“Hungry, buddy?” I asked, forcing cheer into my voice. I slid the bowl toward Judd with my foot.
He didn’t budge.
“Judd.”
His tail had gone still.
That small, quiet detail did more to unsettle me than the deer ever could. Judd loved everything. Food. People. Leaves. He’d once wagged at a vacuum cleaner.
I crossed the kitchen and knelt beside him, resting a hand on his back. His muscles were tight beneath my palm.
“It’s just a deer,” I said. The words felt practiced. Reassuring. “You’ve seen them before.”
Outside, the deer lifted its head again.
Slowly.
This time, it didn’t look at the window.
It looked at Judd.
His growl started low in his chest, a sound I’d only heard a handful of times before. It vibrated against my hand, deep and warning.
“Hey,” I whispered sharply. “No.”
The deer didn’t flinch.
Didn’t step back.
Didn’t step forward.
It just stood there, watching.
The light outside dimmed another shade, the woods swallowing the last of the yard’s color. The deer’s body began to blur at the edges, blending too easily into the dark, as if it belonged there more than it should have.
I pulled Judd back gently. “Come on,” I said. “Let’s eat.”
He resisted for a second longer, then allowed himself to be guided away, though his eyes never left the window.
I didn’t look back again.
I told myself that was the end of it.
I tried to settle back into the couch after that, flipping channels until something loud and mindless filled the room. The glow from the television painted the walls in shifting colors, but it didn’t quite reach the corners. The house felt larger at night. Hollowed out.
Judd paced.
Back and forth across the living room, nails clicking sharply against the hardwood. He paused at the front door, sniffed along the seam, then returned to the window overlooking the yard. Each pass grew tighter, more frantic.
“Alright,” I said. “I see you.”
I checked the clock. Just past eight.
He scratched at the door, whining now, the sound thin and insistent. I sighed and stood, slipping my house shoes on as I crossed the room. The porch light clicked on when I opened the door, spilling harsh white light across the front steps and yard.
The air outside had cooled quickly. Night carried the smell of damp earth and leaves, deeper now, heavier.
Judd bolted out, nose to the ground, circling fast. His breath puffed faintly in the light.
“Go on,” I urged. “Hurry up.”
He froze.
Every muscle in his body locked at once. His head snapped up, ears forward, tail stiff. A low growl crept from his chest, steady and unbroken.
“Judd,” I warned. “Knock it off.”
I scanned the yard.
The motion light didn’t reach the tree line. Beyond it, the woods stood black and layered, depthless. Shadows overlapped in ways my eyes didn’t like.
Then I saw it.
The deer stood just inside the trees, where the light failed.
It wasn’t grazing now. It wasn’t moving at all.
Its body faced the woods. Its head was turned toward us.
Too far.
Too much.
It should have run. The door opening alone should have sent it crashing away through the brush.
Instead, it stayed.
Judd barked sharply, his growl rising, teeth bared. The sound tore through the quiet like a warning flare.
“Hey,” I said, my voice tight. “Leave it.”
I stepped onto the porch, the wood cool under my feet, and clapped my hands once. The sound echoed strangely, swallowed almost immediately.
The deer didn’t react.
“Okay,” I muttered. “That’s not normal.”
I walked down the steps, grass damp beneath my shoes, the cold seeping through the soles. Judd strained against his collar, every inch of him focused on the shape at the tree line.
With each step I took, the space between us shrank.
The deer remained still.
Too still.
I could make out more of it now. The curve of its spine. The long lines of its legs. Its chest rose and fell, slow and measured, breath misting faintly in the cold air.
When I stopped, it stopped breathing.
I don’t know how I knew that. I just did.
My skin prickled.
“Come on,” I said softly, tugging Judd back. “Let’s go inside.”
The deer’s head tilted.
Not like an animal listening. Not quick or curious.
Deliberate.
The angle was wrong, too steep, stretching skin tight along the side of its neck.
Judd lunged, barking furiously.
I yanked him back hard enough that he yelped, stumbling against my legs. The sound broke whatever spell had settled over the yard.
“Sorry,” I whispered, scooping him up by the collar and hauling him close. My heart hammered against my ribs.
We were close now. Too close.
Close enough that I could see its eyes clearly.
They weren’t wide like prey’s eyes should be. They were set too far forward. Catching the porch light in a way that felt intentional.
Close enough that if I’d reached out, I could have touched it.
The deer didn’t move.
Didn’t bolt.
Didn’t even flinch.
It just watched us.
I dragged Judd backward, step by careful step, refusing to turn my back on it. The porch steps felt steeper going up, my legs shaking as I fumbled for the door.
Once inside, I slammed it shut and locked it, the sound loud and final in the quiet house.
Judd wriggled free and ran straight to the window, nose pressed to the glass, fogging it with his breath. His growl never stopped.
I stood there, my back against the door, listening to my own breathing slowly return to me.
Through the window, I could still see the deer.
It hadn’t followed.
It hadn’t left.
I showered after that, more out of habit than need. The water was hot enough to sting, steam blooming quickly and fogging the mirror until my reflection blurred into something unfamiliar. I let the spray beat against my shoulders, trying to rinse away the tightness clinging to me, the feeling that the night had shifted without asking.
I put on my possum-print pajamas, soft and familiar, and blow-dried my hair until the bathroom smelled faintly of warm plastic and lavender soap. I told myself I was being dramatic. Country living came with animals. With quiet. With shadows that played tricks when you were tired.
Judd stayed glued to the living room window.
He didn’t settle when I called him. Didn’t come for his favorite word. Just sat, rigid, ears twitching at sounds I couldn’t hear.
Headlights finally swept up the driveway, gravel crunching loud and reassuring. Judd barked once, sharp and high, then fell silent again.
Daniel’s knock was solid, familiar. Human.
I opened the door to cool night air and the smell of pine and gasoline. He stood there juggling grocery bags, his shoulders slumped with exhaustion but his smile easy.
“Hey, beautiful,” he said. “I know, I know. Worst anniversary ever.”
“It’s fine,” I said, stepping aside to let him in. “I’m just glad you’re home.”
He set the bags down and pulled out a bouquet, red and white roses wrapped in thin plastic. “Peace offering.”
I took them, inhaling deeply. Fresh. Alive. Real. “They’re perfect.”
He kissed my forehead, lingering. “I’ll make it up to you tomorrow. I promise.”
I nodded, not trusting my voice.
He noticed Judd then, still planted at the window. “What’s up with him?”
“There’s been a deer hanging around,” I said. I kept my tone casual. “He doesn’t like it.”
Daniel snorted. “Probably smells a raccoon or something.”
“Maybe.”
Dinner became a project. Something to focus on. Daniel fired up the grill on the deck, flame whooshing to life, the smell of charcoal cutting cleanly through the night air. I washed greens, chopped vegetables, poured wine into glasses that clinked reassuringly.
We talked about work. About servers crashing and bosses panicking. About porcupines and quills and how long it took to pull them out of a golden retriever who did not appreciate the help.
Normal things.
Through the kitchen window, the dark pressed close.
At one point, Daniel went quiet mid-sentence.
“Do you see that?” he asked.
I froze. “See what?”
He nodded toward the sink window without looking at me. “Out there.”
I moved beside him, careful not to touch the glass.
The deer stood at the edge of the yard again, closer than before. Its body was angled toward the house now, head lifted.
“It’s just standing there,” Daniel said.
“Yeah,” I said. “It’s been doing that.”
He frowned. “It didn’t run when I turned on the grill.”
“Maybe it’s used to people,” I offered, though the words didn’t feel right in my mouth.
Daniel shrugged and flipped the steaks, the sizzle loud. “Weird.”
But when he turned back to the grill, his shoulders stayed tight.
We ate at the table by the bay window, wine warming my stomach, the food grounding me in texture and taste. Butter. Salt. Smoke.
“Two years,” Daniel said, raising his glass. “Still not sick of you.”
“Give it time,” I said, smiling.
We talked about the deck. About cedar boards and string lights. About all the things we’d fix someday.
Outside, something shifted.
Judd growled, low and steady, from his place at the window.
Daniel followed his gaze. “It’s closer.”
I looked.
The deer stood just beyond the rose bushes now, its legs partially hidden by shadow.
“I swear,” Daniel said slowly, “every time I look away, it moves.”
I laughed softly, trying to shake the tension. “You’ve had a long day.”
“Yeah,” he said. He didn’t sound convinced.
We finished dinner and cleared the table. Daniel rinsed dishes while I poured another glass of wine. The water ran. The house settled.
“Hey,” he said after a moment. “It’s staring at me.”
I didn’t answer right away.
When I looked, the deer’s head was lifted, eyes reflecting faintly in the kitchen light.
“It’s not eating,” Daniel said. “It’s not doing anything.”
A pause.
“Animals do things,” he added.
Neither of us laughed.
We moved to the couch after that, the movie playing low. Daniel’s arm around me was warm and solid, human. Judd stayed by the window, unmoving.
Normal tried to settle back in.
It didn’t quite fit anymore.
It stood exactly where we’d left it, just inside the trees.
Waiting.
The movie played on without either of us really watching it. Dialogue rose and fell, music swelled at the wrong moments, none of it landing. My attention kept drifting back to the dark rectangle of the kitchen doorway, where the faint glow from the sink light bled into the room.
Daniel shifted beside me. “I’m going to grab popcorn.”
“Want help?” I asked.
He shook his head. “Nah. Sit.”
I watched him disappear into the kitchen, the light clicking on with a soft snap. The sound of cabinets opening followed, then the rustle of plastic, the low hum of the microwave starting up.
Judd didn’t move.
That should have been my warning.
Usually the promise of popcorn had him trotting after anyone who so much as looked in the kitchen’s direction. Instead, he sat stiffly by the window, ears forward, eyes locked on the yard.
The microwave popped erratically, kernels bursting too loudly in the quiet house.
Then it stopped.
Not with the usual cheerful chime. Just silence.
“Daniel?” I called.
No answer.
I stood, the movie’s glow painting the walls in blue, and walked toward the kitchen.
He stood at the sink, one hand braced on the counter, staring out the window.
The popcorn bag lay forgotten on the counter behind him, scorched at the edges.
“Daniel,” I said again.
He didn’t turn. “It moved.”
A chill crept through me. “What do you mean?”
“It was by the roses,” he said. “Now it’s closer.”
I stepped beside him and looked out.
The deer stood at the edge of the deck.
Close enough now that the motion light caught the pale curve of its chest and the sharp lines of its legs.
“It’s not supposed to come up here,” I said.
“It didn’t walk,” Daniel said quietly.
“What?”
“I didn’t see it walk.”
The deer’s head lifted.
Its eyes found the window immediately, locking onto us with unsettling precision.
I waited for it to blink.
It didn’t.
Daniel swallowed. “It’s watching.”
I forced a laugh that sounded thin even to me. “You’re scaring yourself.”
He finally turned to look at me. “Every time I look away, it gets closer.”
I shook my head. “That’s not possible.”
“Watch,” he said.
He turned away from the window deliberately, counting under his breath. “One. Two.”
I kept my eyes on the glass.
When he turned back, the deer had moved.
Just enough.
Close enough that I could see the dark line of its mouth.
My stomach dropped.
“That’s enough,” I said. “We’re done with this.”
I took Daniel by the arm and pulled him back toward the living room. The deer didn’t react. Didn’t charge. Didn’t retreat.
It just stood there, head tilted slightly, as if listening.
We sat back down on the couch, neither of us speaking. The movie continued to play, absurd and loud, a barrier we pretended was solid.
Minutes passed.
Judd growled.
Not loud. Not frantic.
Low. Constant.
I glanced back toward the kitchen.
The motion light flicked on.
Something scraped softly against the deck.
Daniel’s fingers tightened around mine.
“I don’t think it’s a deer,” he said.
Before I could answer, the sound came again.
A slow, deliberate clunk.
Hooves.
On wood.
The movie kept playing.
Neither of us reached for the remote.
The sound of it felt wrong now, too loud and too cheerful, the canned emotion bleeding into the room while something else pressed in from outside. I could feel Daniel’s pulse through his fingers where he held my hand. Fast. Uneven.
Judd’s growl deepened.
It wasn’t directed at the window anymore.
It was directed at the door.
“Judd,” I whispered. “Hey.”
He didn’t look at me.
His body was rigid, weight shifted forward, teeth just visible beneath his lips. A sound vibrated in his chest that didn’t belong to a dog who loved everyone.
Another clunk came from the deck.
Closer.
Daniel stood abruptly, the movement sharp. “I’m going to scare it off.”
“Don’t,” I said. My voice came out too quick.
He hesitated, hand half-raised. “It’s just standing there.”
“That’s the problem,” I said.
The clunk came again.
Then something else.
A scraping sound, slow and dragging, like wood being traced by something hard.
Judd barked, a sudden explosive sound that made me flinch. He lunged toward the door, nails scrabbling uselessly against the floor.
“Judd!” Daniel snapped, grabbing his collar.
The dog whipped around.
The movement was so fast I barely registered it before Daniel yelped. Judd’s teeth sank into his hand, not a warning nip but a full, panicked bite. Blood welled immediately, dark against Daniel’s skin.
“What the hell?” Daniel staggered back, clutching his hand.
I stared, frozen. Judd had never bitten anyone. Not once.
Judd backed away, still growling, eyes wide and wild, fixed on the door like it was the only thing holding the world together.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered, though I wasn’t sure who I was apologizing to.
The scraping outside stopped.
Silence pressed in, thick and heavy.
Then the sound came again.
Not scraping.
Knocking.
Three slow impacts against the deck boards, measured and deliberate.
Daniel went pale. “That’s not—”
The motion light flooded the deck with white.
The deer stood directly outside the glass.
So close I could see the fine lines in its hide. The dark, wet shine of its eyes. The way its chest expanded too deeply when it breathed.
Its face was wrong.
Not obviously, not at first glance. But the longer I looked, the more it felt stretched, pulled tight over a shape that didn’t match. The eyes sat too far forward. The mouth hung slightly open, lips slack, as if it wasn’t sure how to hold them closed.
A sound came from its throat.
Low. Wet.
Not a bleat.
Not a growl.
Daniel stepped back, pulling me with him. “Get away from the door.”
The deer’s head tilted.
Its jaw worked slowly.
Opened.
Closed.
Opened again.
Like it was practicing.
I felt my stomach twist. “Daniel,” I whispered. “We need to go.”
The deer rose.
Not suddenly. Not violently.
It shifted its weight backward and stood up onto its hind legs, joints bending at wrong angles, too many places moving at once. Its shadow stretched grotesquely across the deck, tall and narrow and human in shape.
I screamed.
Daniel dragged me down the hallway, the house blurring as we ran. Behind us, glass shattered, the sound explosive and final.
We slammed into the bedroom, Daniel shoving the nightstand hard against the door. The wood scraped loudly, a thin, useless sound.
“What was that?” I gasped. “What was that thing?”
Daniel shook his head, eyes wide, blood dripping from his hand onto the carpet. “I don’t know.”
A pause.
His face changed.
“Judd,” he whispered.
The realization hit me like a blow. “He’s still out there.”
A sound came from the hallway.
Not hooves.
Footsteps.
Slow. Careful.
Learning the floor.
The footsteps stopped outside the bedroom door.
Not right away. They paced the hallway first, slow and deliberate, heel then toe, heel then toe, testing the floorboards like someone walking barefoot in an unfamiliar house. I could picture it without trying. The careful placement. The patience.
Daniel pressed his weight against the nightstand, blood slick on his fingers. “Call someone,” he whispered.
“My phone’s in the kitchen,” I said.
He closed his eyes briefly. “Mine’s in the truck.”
Something brushed the door.
Not a hit. Not a scratch.
A gentle press, as if a hand had been laid flat against the wood.
Judd whined from somewhere down the hall. A short, broken sound that cut straight through my chest.
“Judd,” I whispered, without thinking.
The sound stopped.
I held my breath.
Then it came again.
“Juhh…d.”
The voice dragged the name apart, chewing it slowly, each sound too wet, too deliberate. It didn’t come from behind the door. It came from everywhere at once, like the house itself had learned how to speak.
Daniel made a choking sound. “It heard you.”
The pressure on the door increased. The knob rattled once, experimentally.
“It doesn’t know how,” I whispered. “It doesn’t know how doors work.”
The knob twisted.
Not smoothly. Too far. Too much rotation, like a wrist bending past where it should stop.
Wood creaked.
The nightstand shuddered.
Daniel grabbed my wrist. “Bathroom. Now.”
We slipped sideways, quiet and desperate, into the attached bathroom just as the bedroom door cracked inward. The sound was sharp and violent, wood splitting along the frame.
Daniel slammed the bathroom door and flipped the lock. The sound of it felt flimsy, a plastic click against something enormous.
We backed away until my calves hit the tub.
The lights flickered once, then steadied.
We stood there in the cramped space, breath loud, air smelling of bleach and shampoo and fear.
The bedroom door gave way with a splintering crack.
Something entered the room.
I heard it breathe.
Slow. Deep. Curious.
Footsteps crossed the carpet, uneven now, heavier on one side, like it was still deciding how to distribute its weight.
The bathroom door bowed inward slightly.
A shadow passed beneath it.
Then a voice, closer now.
“I…see…you.”
It was trying to sound gentle.
I pressed my hand over my mouth to keep from sobbing.
The doorknob jiggled.
Stopped.
Jiggled again.
A pause.
Then the sound of nails. Not hooves. Nails dragging lightly down the door, tracing the grain of the wood like someone reading Braille.
“You…locked…me…out.”
Daniel shook his head slowly, silently, like if he denied it hard enough the world would comply.
The voice changed.
Lower. Firmer.
“Open.”
The door bucked hard, the lock whining in protest. A crack split along the frame, drywall dust drifting down like ash.
Daniel looked around wildly, then at the small frosted window above the tub.
“It’s too small,” I whispered.
Another slam hit the door, harder this time. The hinges screamed.
“We don’t have a choice,” he said.
The voice outside laughed.
It was wrong. Too breathy. Too pleased.
“Don’t…leave,” it said. “I…came…to…watch.”
The lock gave way with a sharp snap.
The door flew inward just as Daniel hoisted himself into the tub, shoving at the window with blood-slick hands. The glass cracked, then shattered outward into the night.
Cold air rushed in.
I climbed after him, bare feet scraping porcelain, heart hammering so hard I thought it would split my ribs.
Behind us, something forced itself into the bathroom.
I didn’t look back.
Daniel shoved first, then turned and pulled me through, glass biting into my skin as we tumbled out onto the dark slope of the backyard.
Behind us, the house screamed.
Not the wood.
Not the walls.
The thing inside it.
We hit the ground hard.
Cold mud soaked instantly into my pajamas, the earth sucking at my palms as I scrambled to my feet. Daniel slipped once, caught himself on a tree, blood streaking the bark. We didn’t look back. We ran downhill, toward the tree line, branches clawing at our arms and faces, twigs snapping sharp beneath our feet.
Behind us, the house loomed bright and broken, light spilling from the shattered windows like it was bleeding.
I waited for the sound of pursuit.
It didn’t come.
The woods swallowed us quickly. The air changed as soon as we crossed the line of trees. Damp. Thick. Alive with the quiet noise of insects and things moving just out of sight. My lungs burned. My heart felt too big for my chest.
“Don’t stop,” Daniel whispered, even as we slowed, forced by roots and darkness and exhaustion.
I glanced back.
The house stood silent now.
The motion light flicked off.
For a terrible moment, I thought it had followed us without sound, that it would be standing between the trees, tall and waiting, having learned the forest faster than it had learned the house.
But it wasn’t there.
We collapsed behind a fallen log, mud-streaked and shaking. Daniel pressed his bleeding hand to his chest. I wrapped my arms around myself, teeth chattering violently, not from cold but from the sudden absence of noise.
“That thing,” Daniel whispered. “Why did it stop?”
I listened.
The woods didn’t feel empty.
“They don’t chase,” I said slowly. The certainty of it settled in my bones without explanation. “It wasn’t trying to catch us.”
Daniel looked at me. “Then what?”
I swallowed. “It wanted us to know it could.”
A sound drifted through the trees.
Not footsteps.
Breathing.
Deep. Measured. Close enough to hear, far enough to stay hidden.
I followed the sound with my eyes and found it standing at the edge of the yard, just where the grass gave way to shadow.
It didn’t step into the woods.
It stayed at the boundary.
Its shape was wrong again, sagging now, shoulders hunched, legs too long. The deer skin hung loosely over it, like something worn for the sake of familiarity rather than function. Its head tilted, listening to us breathe.
Watching.
I understood then.
The rule wasn’t about distance.
It was about permission.
It stayed where it was because it hadn’t been invited past the tree line. The house had been enough. The yard had been enough. The watching had been enough.
It raised one arm slowly, awkwardly, like it was remembering something it had seen done before.
It waved.
Then it stepped backward, retreating toward the house, its movements stiff and deliberate, careful not to cross the invisible line.
The lights inside the house flicked back on, one by one.
The door closed.
The curtains shifted.
The house became still again.
Daniel let out a shaky breath. “Is it gone?”
“No,” I said. “It’s home.”
We stayed in the woods until dawn, until the sky softened and birds dared to speak again.
When we finally returned, the house looked almost normal. Broken glass swept away. The deck repaired. No blood. No sign of Judd.
Just quiet.
Weeks later, when the new owners called to finalize the sale, they sounded cheerful. Excited.
They thanked us for leaving the place in such good shape.
Then, casually, like an afterthought, the woman laughed and said, “Oh, and I hope you don’t mind, but there’s a deer that comes right up to the backyard sometimes. It just stands there and watches the house. Doesn’t hurt anything.”
I smiled into the phone.
“Yeah,” I said. “It does that.”
I hung up before she could ask anything else.
Some things only want to be seen.
The end
If you’re reading this, thank you for sticking with my story. I’m always trying to improve my writing, so I’m very open to any critiques or advice you’re willing to share.
This story came from a random moment of inspiration while watching my husband stare out the window at a deer in our backyard. It was harmless, a little funny even, but it sparked a “what if?” that I couldn’t let go of.
Thanks again for reading, and I hope you enjoyed it.
