The wind carried a strange sound that winter night. A scraping on the back porch, soft like claws against frozen wood. Tara turned down the radio and listened again. For a moment, everything hushed, even the ticking of the wall clock.

Then came a low whine. 

She opened the door with her flashlight trembling in her hand. A coyote stood at the edge of the porch, snow catching in its thick fur. Its eyes shone amber, calm but heavy with knowing. Beneath its jaw hung a black leather collar, cracked and stiff with age.

Tara’s heart stumbled. That collar had belonged to Scout, her dog, gone three winters now, buried beyond the shed.

The coyote didn’t move when she whispered Scout’s name. It only blinked slowly, and a faint rasp echoed in its throat, halfway between a growl and a sigh.

When Tara stepped closer, her flashlight flickered out. The darkness deepened.

By dawn, the snow outside held only a single trail of paw prints that stopped halfway through the yard, then changed into a pair of human prints before vanishing.