Chapter 1: The Stare
Arthur "Art" Miller had lived in the two-story colonial on Elm Street for thirty years. He knew every creak of the floorboards, every draft in the windows, and exactly how long it took for the hot water to reach the upstairs shower. He was a man of routine. He woke up at 6:00 AM, drank his coffee black, and took Buster, his twelve-year-old Golden Retriever mix, for a walk around the block. But on Tuesday evening, the routine broke. It started quietly. Art was in the living room watching the evening news when he realized he hadn't heard the clicking of Buster’s nails on the hardwood for over an hour.
Usually, the dog was glued to Art’s side, begging for a piece of cheese or a scratch behind the ears. Art stood up, his knees popping audibly, and called out, "Buster? Supper time." There was no movement. No enthusiastic bark. Art walked into the hallway connecting the living room to the kitchen. There was Buster. The old dog was standing rigid, his tail tucked slightly between his legs, staring intently at a blank patch of drywall between the coat closet and the thermostat.
"What is it, boy?" Art asked, reaching down to pat the dog’s head. Buster didn't flinch. He didn't lean into the touch. His eyes were milky with age, but they were locked onto the beige wallpaper with a laser-like focus that Art had never seen before. Art looked at the wall. There was nothing there. No spider, no shadow, just the flat, slightly textured surface Art had painted himself five years ago. "Come on, let's go," Art said, grabbing Buster’s collar to gently guide him toward the kitchen.
It was like pulling a concrete statue. The dog refused to budge. His muscles were tensed, trembling slightly. Art, a retired general contractor who was used to hauling lumber, had to use two hands to physically drag the eighty-pound animal away from the spot. He got Buster into the kitchen and poured food into the bowl. Buster took one bite, stopped, and immediately trotted back to the hallway to resume his vigil.
Art felt a prickle of unease run down his neck. He adjusted his thick-rimmed glasses and knelt beside the dog. "You hear a mouse in there? Is that it?" Art whispered, placing his ear against the plaster. He held his breath, listening for the tell-tale scratching of rodents in the insulation. Silence. Just the hum of the refrigerator from the other room. Art stood up, dusting off his knees, ready to dismiss it as canine senility. He reached for the light switch to turn off the hall light.
Just as his finger touched the switch, a sound came from the dog that froze Art in place. It wasn't a bark. It wasn't a whine. It was a low, vibrating growl that seemed to come from the bottom of Buster’s chest—a primal, vicious sound directed squarely at the blank wall.
