Third Night

Late at night, Tom woke up parched, his throat scratchy and dry. Groggy, he shuffled out of bed, rubbing his eyes as he made his way to the kitchen for a glass of water. The house was silent, save for the faint hum of the fridge. As he reached for a glass, he froze. There, in the dim glow of the moonlight spilling through the window, stood his dog, Max—a scruffy little terrier—upright on its hind legs. Its front paws dangled awkwardly, and its head tilted at an odd angle, staring right at him.

Tom blinked hard, a nervous chuckle escaping his lips.

“I’m dreaming,”

he muttered, shaking his head.

“Too much late-night TV.”

He filled his glass, took a sip, and glanced back. Max was still there, motionless, eyes glinting unnaturally in the dark. Uneasy, Tom turned away, convincing himself it was just his tired mind playing tricks. He trudged back to bed, water in hand, and slipped under the covers.

The next morning, he found Max curled up on the living room rug, wagging his tail as usual. Tom laughed it off, sipping his coffee. But that night, he woke again—thirsty. In the kitchen, Max stood on his hind legs once more, this time closer, his snout inches from Tom’s face. Those eyes didn’t blink. And when Tom stumbled back to bed, heart pounding, he swore he heard soft, padded steps following him down the hall.

By the third night, Tom didn’t go to the kitchen. He stayed in bed, mouth dry, listening as the floorboards creaked. Then, at the foot of his bed, he saw it—Max, standing tall, watching him with a glass of water.