“There’s a vicious pitbull tearing something apart in that boarded-up house on 8th Street. I can hear it growling. It sounds… it sounds like it’s killing someone.”
Officer Ethan Caldwell tightened his grip on the steering wheel as he listened to dispatch relay the address again. Beside him, his partner, Officer Marissa Grant, stared out at the white blur beyond the windshield, jaw set tight. They had responded to plenty of bad calls before—domestic violence, break-ins, overdoses—but something about the tone of this one clung to Ethan’s spine.
“Animal attack in a foreclosure,” Marissa muttered. “In this weather. Whoever’s in there won’t last long.”
The house on 8th Street was barely visible beneath the storm. Snow had drifted halfway up the front door, and plywood sheets clung to broken windows like loose bandages. The neighborhood had been hollowed out years ago—families gone, lawns swallowed by weeds, porch lights long extinguished.
The officers stepped out into knee-deep snow, boots crunching, wind slicing through their uniforms. From inside the house came a sound that did not belong to the storm.
A low, guttural growl.
Then a sharp, frantic bark.
Then something that sounded like wood splintering.
