Third Night
The first time it happened, Tom almost convinced himself it was nothing. It had been one of those muggy summer nights where the air hung heavy and sleep came in uneasy fits. He’d tossed and turned for hours, slipping in and out of shallow dreams, until the dryness in his throat pulled him fully awake. The bedroom was hot, the sheets clinging to his skin. His tongue felt like sandpaper.
With a low groan, Tom swung his legs out of bed, rubbing at his gritty eyes. The floorboards were cool under his bare feet, and he shuffled through the dark house, still half-asleep. The silence was thick except for the faint hum of the refrigerator—a constant, low vibration that reminded him of the stillness between heartbeats.
In the kitchen, the moonlight spilled in thin silver streaks through the window over the sink. He reached for a glass on the counter, yawning as he filled it from the tap. And then he saw it. At first, his mind didn’t register what was wrong. It was Max—his scruffy little terrier—standing in the middle of the kitchen. But not like a dog. Not how dogs stand. Max was upright on his hind legs, his front paws dangling uselessly in front of him. His head was tilted at an unnatural angle, just enough to make Tom’s stomach tighten. And he was staring. The kind of stare that didn’t blink.
Tom blinked instead, hard, shaking his head.
“I’m dreaming,”
He muttered, trying for a chuckle that came out dry.
“Too much late-night TV.”
He drank his water without looking again, setting the glass down with a clink. When he turned back toward the hallway, Max was still there, motionless. His eyes caught the moonlight in a way Tom didn’t like. Like wet glass, like something that wasn’t just reflecting, but watching back. Shaking it off, he walked past, muttering something about needing more sleep. Back in bed, he pulled the covers up over his shoulders and closed his eyes. He didn’t remember falling asleep.
The next morning, Max was curled up on the living room rug, tail thumping lazily when Tom walked in. No hint of last night’s strange posture. Just the same happy, shaggy mutt he’d had for years. Tom laughed at himself over coffee, chalking it up to his half-asleep brain misfiring. Still, he left the kitchen light on that night before heading to bed. Just in case.
The second time, there was no mistaking it. It was late again, another humid night. Tom woke up parched, that same scratchy dryness in his throat pulling him from uneasy dreams. He thought about ignoring it, but habit won, and he trudged toward the kitchen. He didn’t make it more than three steps past the doorway before freezing. Max was there again. Upright. This time, closer. His snout was inches from Tom’s face, so close he could see the faint steam of the dog’s breath in the moonlight. Max’s eyes locked on his, unblinking, pupils wide.
Tom stumbled back, heart pounding, fumbling for the kitchen light. When it flicked on, Max dropped instantly to all fours, tail wagging, tongue lolling out like nothing had happened. Tom stared at him, chest heaving.
“What the hell is wrong with you?”
He whispered. Max just tilted his head in that familiar dog-like way, though now it made Tom’s stomach twist. He didn’t finish his trip to the sink. He backed into the bedroom, locking the door. All night, he swore he heard soft, padded steps moving up and down the hallway.
By the third night, Tom wasn’t leaving his room. He lay in bed, throat dry, staring at the dark ceiling. The silence was worse now. No hum of the fridge, no night insects outside. Just stillness. And then—floorboards creaking. Slow, deliberate steps. The sound of weight shifting with each one, coming from the hall. He tried to tell himself it was nothing, but the sound grew closer, until it stopped just outside his door. He thought about locking it again—except he realized he already had.
Something brushed against the door. Not scratching. Not pushing. Just… touching. And then, impossibly, the door eased open, hinges whispering in the dark. Max stood in the doorway. Upright. Tall. The moonlight from the window framed him like a figure in an old photograph. In his front paws—no, in his hands—he held a glass of water. It trembled only slightly, the surface rippling in the dim light. Tom’s mouth went dry for an entirely different reason.
“Max…”
He said, his voice shaking. The dog didn’t move, didn’t blink. The water glass caught the light, and for a moment, Tom thought he saw something inside it—something dark swirling beneath the surface. The next moment, Max was gone. The glass, however, remained. Sitting neatly on the nightstand beside Tom’s bed.
The next day, Tom didn’t go to work. He sat on the couch, staring at Max, who was sleeping peacefully in his dog bed. He thought about calling someone, his brother, maybe, or the vet but what would he even say? My dog is… standing up at night? He ran his hands over his face. It sounded insane.
That night, he set up his phone in the corner of the bedroom, camera pointed at the door. He told himself it was for proof. He woke at exactly 3:03 a.m. to the sound of the floor creaking again. Max was standing in the doorway, upright. No glass this time. Instead, his paws hung limp, but his head slowly tilted until it was nearly horizontal. His mouth opened slightly—not in a pant, but in something like a grin.
Tom couldn’t move. Couldn’t even sit up. His body felt pinned by an invisible weight. Max stepped forward. And again. The air grew colder with each step. The dog’s shadow on the wall looked wrong—taller, stretched, with something like fingers instead of paws. When Max reached the side of the bed, he leaned down until his face was inches from Tom’s. His breath was icy now. Tom felt something cold and wet press against his lips.
In the morning, Tom woke with the taste of water in his mouth. On the nightstand, a glass sat half-empty, tiny pawprints pressed into the condensation. Max lay at the foot of the bed, sleeping. But when Tom reached down to stroke his fur, his hand recoiled. The body under the blanket of fur was too warm. And under his fingers, he felt the slow, deliberate thump of a heartbeat—much, much too slow to belong to a living dog.
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