Grendel, an eleven-year-old beagle mix, still barks at the mailman, the neighbors, squirrels, cats—any strangers at all, despite his age and flagging energy. And I can count on him barking with joy when I come in the back door every evening. If not for him, I’d always be greeted by stone-cold silence.

And that’s what I hear tonight.

I toss my keys onto the kitchen counter and slip my coat off.

“Grendel?”

Everything looks normal. Grendel’s food bowl is nearly empty, which means he’s eaten while I was out at the library. I usually manage to keep the kitchen clean, mainly because I don’t cook. The appliances are here, and everything appears to be in order.

But something feels wrong.

Without Grendel’s barking, the house seems unsettled.

Off.

A chill flash-freezes up my spine. I feel like an intruder in my own home, like I’ve walked in on something.

I move toward the front of the house, stepping carefully. The ancient floorboards squeak, each one sounding like a gunshot.

Grendel typically spends his time on the couch when I’m gone. When he hears something outside, he likes to lift his head and look out the picture window. He lets out a series of barks that make him sound much more vicious than he really is, and once that’s out of his system, he flops back down as though he’s just run twenty miles.

By now I should hear his collar jingling, his nails on the hardwood.

He’s an old dog, I tell myself. Old dogs don’t live forever.

“Grendel?”

When I reach the entrance to the living room, I freeze in place.

Everything is where it’s supposed to be. The lamp I always leave on is on. The furniture is arranged the way it’s been arranged for years. Nothing is disturbed. Nothing is broken.

And Grendel sits on the floor, his tail flopping back and forth when he sees me.

Everything is where it’s supposed to be except that someone is sitting in the recliner, legs crossed, hand gently scratching Grendel between the ears.

“Hello,” she says.

My mind is slower than my body. My body reacts instantly. My muscles tense. My hands clench. My knees bend into a defensive crouch, and adrenaline shoots through me like rocket fuel.

But my mind is still trying to make sense of this scene before me. A young woman with long hair dyed an unnatural shade of red sits in my recliner petting my dog. And she greets me like she’s supposed to be there, like I’ve asked her to wait for me to come home this evening. She wears a red coat, black jeans, and heavy boots, and her face is mostly obscured by large owllike glasses.

“Who the hell are you? You need to get out of here—”