The snow fell in thick, relentless waves as Igor and Tatyana arrived at the crooked blue house perched on the village’s edge. Moving here had been their last desperate hope—Tatyana’s cough worsening with every city breath, doctors pleading for fresh air, and the endless noise that drained them. But the house was far worse than they’d feared: rotting boards sagged beneath cracked ceilings, and the heavy scent of damp decay clung to every shadowed corner. In the backseat, their baby Dima’s sharp cries pierced the frozen silence of the blizzard.
Pale and hollow-eyed, Tatyana barely had the strength to carry him inside. Igor’s jaw clenched tight as he forced the stiff, groaning door open, revealing a darkness that seemed to swallow them whole.
The Arrival of Lada
That first night was a torment—the wind howling through every crack, the cold seeping deep into their bones. Then, just before dawn, a faint sound at the door. A dog stood in the snowdrift, brown fur matted with ice, eyes deep and knowing. She didn’t whine or beg—only watched them, as if silently asking to come in.
Despite Tatyana’s protests, Igor opened the door. The dog—whom he named Lada, after his grandmother—walked straight to Dima’s crib and settled down, still as a statue.
The First Warning
Days passed. The house slowly warmed, and Tatyana’s cough eased. But Lada never left Dima’s side. Like a shadow, she followed him everywhere, ears twitching at sounds no one else could hear.
Then one night, a low, guttural growl shattered the silence. Lada stood rigid, teeth bared, staring into the darkest corner of the room. Tatyana clutched Dima tightly, heart pounding. “What is she seeing?” Igor asked, though he saw nothing but felt the heavy, suffocating weight of something unseen pressing close.
The Rat and the Truth
When Lada killed a chicken, Tatyana insisted she be sent away, convinced the dog was dangerous. But that very night, scratching noises came from the walls—not mice or rats, something larger. Then, the sound of breaking glass.
Rushing outside, Igor found Lada standing guard over a grotesque, cat-sized rat, yellowed teeth bared in death. Tatyana dropped to her knees, trembling. “She wasn’t hunting for sport… she was protecting us.”
The Unseen Enemy
Winter deepened. The scratching grew louder. Dima woke screaming, tiny fists thrashing, fighting an invisible terror. Tatyana’s cough returned with a vengeance. One midnight, a window shattered inward—no rock, no branch—just a force trying to break in. Lada lunged, snarling fiercely, driving it back.
Outside, Igor discovered strange footprints—too large, too human, yet not human at all—leading deep into the forest, with Lada’s pawprints trailing close behind.
The Final Guardian
Years passed. The house became a home. Dima grew strong. A baby sister arrived. Lada, ever watchful, grew old but her eyes never dulled—always scanning the treeline, always listening.
Then, one cold winter morning, she didn’t rise. They buried her beneath the birch tree behind the house, where wildflowers bloomed every spring.
And sometimes, when the wind howls just right, Tatyana pauses—listening for the soft patter of paws on the floorboards, feeling a quiet warmth near the crib. Their guardian remains, watching still.
The End.
