It was a dull, heavy sound against the front door. Not the sharp crack of a branch. This was softer.

Arthur paused, his hand gripping the curtain. He waited. A raccoon? A stray dog seeking shelter? He almost ignored it. In this weather, opening the door was an invitation for the heat to escape, and the furnace was already struggling.

But then came a scratch. A weak, rhythmic scratching against the wood at the base of the door.

Grumbling, Arthur set his glass down. He grabbed the iron poker from the fireplace—old habits from his forty years as the County Sheriff died hard—and marched to the hallway. He unlocked the deadbolt and yanked the door open, bracing himself against the gust of ice crystals that assaulted his face.

He looked out at the darkness. Nothing but swirling white.

“Damn wind,” he muttered, preparing to slam the door.

Then he looked down.