Shelby Alexander stood at his kitchen window, drinking his coffee and looking out at the darkness of the Michigan night. A darkness punctuated only by the sickly yellow glow of the bug light over the barn door some yards away. He had stood in this exact place countless times, seen this same view.

But tonight it was different.

Shelby took another sip of coffee and squinted his eyes, trying to decide what was bothering him about this scene. From a casual glance, it appeared quiet and peaceful—just another winter’s night with clouds obscuring the moon and stars.

The darkness had taken some getting used to.

When he first moved back to the area around the small town of Serenity, in search of a little peace and slow living, he had marveled at the difference. The light pollution caused by the larger cities downstate seemed to prevent it from ever being truly dark. But up here, the darkness could become an almost palpable thing.

After a week of buying the property, Shelby had installed the bug light that automatically came on when darkness fell. It wasn’t high wattage, but created a haven in the blackness. Now he could have turned the light off and been fine, but he’d grown accustomed to it and found its pale glow comforting simply by virtue of its familiarity.

Shelby was not a man who enjoyed change.

The barn drew his attention once more, but at first all appeared in order. The front double doors were closed, and he could see the padlock was still secure.

And then something moved. Something off to the side, just on the edge of the bug light’s glowing reach.

Shelby’s eyes sharpened, and he stared intently—but the movement was gone.

“I’m losing my mind,” he muttered. “Perhaps Leslie is right and I should make an appointment with the doc. Of course, I’d probably forget to go.”

This made him chuckle and he smiled into his coffee. It was far too late to be drinking the stuff, but he silenced the warning in his head by deciding to sleep in tomorrow morning.

He wouldn’t, of course.

And then he saw it again.

“There is something out there!” he muttered.

He set the mug down on the counter and walked to the closet to grab his coat. He had no burning desire to go outside. It was late in the season, but winter had been hanging on this season, determined to stick around as long as possible, and the night was cold.

Still, he needed to find out what was out there.

After throwing on his coat, he walked to the door and paused to grabbed his varmint gun that leaned in the corner. The .22 semi-auto wasn’t a heavy hitter, but he could knock the eyeball out of a mosquito at 80 yards with iron sights.

Heaving a breath, he opened the door and stepped outside.

The chill wasted no time seeping into every tiny opening and working its way into his bones. He felt a little ache in his hands, but immediately pushed that thought away.

He hefted the gun and set a course for the barn, wondering what he might find. A dog? A coyote? Probably not a wolf. Not here.

There were wolves in Michigan, but they generally stayed even farther north, in the Upper Peninsula. The Department of Natural Resources had found genetic evidence of gray wolves in the Lower Peninsula, but they were rare; Shelby had never seen one in the wild. He instinctively thought about his Boston Terrier, Sheba, but remembered she’d been dead a good five years.

His boots crunched on the snow, the sound seeming incredibly loud in the absolute stillness of the night.

Then he paused, listened for any other sound—but there was nothing.

He looked to where he’d seen the movement and could now make out the dark splotch of something on the ground. From where he stood, it appeared to be a pile of old rags or fur. At first, he wondered if he’d simply dropped something on his way to the burn barrel, but he hadn’t incinerated any trash for a few days.

And then it moved again.

Holding the rifle ready, he moved cautiously ahead.

“Hello?”

His voice sounded strange and hollow.

There was no answer.

Now he could make out more detail, and what he saw made his heart clench. It wasn’t a dog. Or a coyote. Or any kind of animal.

It was a woman.

Shelby rushed forward and, leaning the rifle against the side of the barn, knelt down in the snow.

“Ma’am? Are you alright?”

It was a stupid question, but he just didn’t know what else to say.

Holding the woman’s shoulders, he turned her enough so that her face was toward the light.

“Jenny?”

The woman didn’t answer.

“What are you doing out here? You’ll freeze!”

She appeared almost frozen already; she was unresponsive, and if it hadn’t been for the slight movements Shelby had seen, he would have thought she was dead already.

Sliding his arms beneath Jenny’s body, Shelby lifted her up and headed back to the cabin, moving quickly over the snowy ground. He went up the steps and fumbled a bit before managing to open the door. Then he entered and kicked the door shut behind him.

“Let’s get you warmed up,” he said, breathing heavily as he set Jenny down in front of the wood stove. He grabbed his phone from the counter near the coffeemaker and called for an ambulance, even as he moved back to the unconscious woman.

Ending the call, he knelt and removed her wet, threadbare coat. Working quickly, he began rubbing her arms and legs, desperately trying to improve circulation to the chilled limbs.

But the effort was for nothing.

Jenny died on the floor in front of the wood stove, without ever saying a word.

The paramedics arrived and took her away, and that probably would have been the end of it, had the most notorious drug dealer in the area not pounded on Shelby’s door a few days later.