Ruthless Creatures by J.T. Geissinger

N A T
L
ooking at Mojo with her brows lifted, Sloane says,
“Oh, no, that’s not freaky at all, doggo. What’s up
with you?”
Staring at the window, I mutter, “Good question.”
I could swear I saw a flash of movement outside, but it’s
too dark to tell.
I rise from the table and peer out into the yard. Past the
small yellow pool of light from the kitchen window that’s
illuminating the snow a few feet beyond the house, it’s pitch
black.
Someone could be standing there, looking back at me, and
I wouldn’t be able to see him.
Gooseflesh crawls up my arms.
I yank the shade down and turn back to Sloane. Mojo is
now on his feet, but he’s still staring at the window, growling.
“It’s okay, boy. Good dog.”
He whines, trotting over to me to nuzzle my outstretched
hand with his snout. Then he sits down on his haunches beside
me and leans against my leg, glancing around in alarm and
trembling.
Sloane says, “Since when is he nervous?”
“Since never.”
We share a look. “I’ll lock the front door. You get the
back.”