The house was deathly silent when we stepped inside, but the morning sun revealed a terrifying sight on the floor. Muddy prints stretched across the hardwood, leading directly toward the back bedrooms.
The prints were the size of Mark’s palm, tipped with long, sharp nails that had gouged deep ruts into the wood. I clutched Mark’s arm, my breath hitching as I realized the intruder was still inside.
We tracked the mud past the kitchen, our ears straining for any sound of breathing or movement in the walls. Every creak of the old farmhouse sounded like a footstep from the thing we were hunting.
Mark paused at the pantry, noticing a pile of fresh dirt kicked up against the white baseboards. He shook his head when I whispered the word “raccoon”—this was something much larger and more aggressive.
“We need to check the basement,” Mark whispered, grabbing a heavy flashlight from the kitchen counter. I didn’t want to go down there, but the thought of staying alone in the kitchen was worse.
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