The snow came down in relentless sheets as Igor and Tatyana pulled up to the lopsided blue house at the edge of the village.

Moving here had been a last-ditch effort—the doctors had urged clean air for Tatyana’s worsening cough, and the city’s clamor had become unbearable.

But the house was worse than they feared: sagging beams, crumbling walls, and the pervasive scent of mold and neglect.

Their baby, Dima, wailed from the backseat, his cries piercing the muffled hush of the storm.

Tatyana, pale and drawn, could barely lift him. Igor, jaw tight, wrestled open the stiff, groaning door, revealing a darkness that seemed to swallow them whole.

The Arrival of Lada
That first night was nearly impossible. The wind screamed through unseen gaps, and the cold settled into their very bones. But just before dawn, there was a sound at the door.

A dog stood in the snow, her brown fur knotted with ice, eyes watchful and still. She didn’t bark or plead—just stared, as if waiting.

Despite Tatyana’s protests, Igor let her in. He named her Lada, after his grandmother. Without hesitation, the dog walked straight to Dima’s crib and lay down beside it, silent and unmoving.

The First Warning
In the days that followed, the house slowly warmed, and Tatyana’s cough softened.

But Lada never strayed far from Dima. She shadowed him constantly, her ears twitching at noises no one else noticed.

One night, a deep growl woke them. Lada stood tense, baring her teeth at a shadowed corner of the room.

Tatyana clutched Dima, her heartbeat quickening.

“What is she looking at?” she whispered.

Igor saw only darkness, but the air around them felt thick, pressing, wrong.

The Rat and the Truth
Tensions rose after Lada killed one of the chickens. Tatyana, fearful, insisted the dog had to go.

But that night, the walls stirred with something far larger than rats. Then—a crash of glass.

Igor ran outside and found Lada standing over a monstrous rat, its body grotesque, its teeth long and yellowed. Tatyana dropped to her knees, shaking. “She wasn’t hunting. She was protecting us.”

The Unseen Enemy
As the winter deepened, the scratching behind the walls grew louder.

Dima woke from sleep screaming, his tiny fists clenched as if fighting something no one could see. Tatyana’s cough worsened again.

Then, one midnight, the window shattered—not from a branch, not from a stone, but from something forcing its way inside. Lada lunged with a snarl and drove it back.

Outside, Igor discovered footprints—strange, too big to be human, yet not quite animal—leading into the forest. Lada’s prints followed, trailing after.

The Final Guardian
The years went by. The house became a true home. Dima grew, strong and healthy.

A baby girl came along. Lada aged, her steps slower, but her eyes alert—always watching the trees, always listening for the sound that didn’t belong.

Then, one morning in winter, she didn’t get up. They buried her under the birch tree out back, where wildflowers bloomed with the spring.

Sometimes, when the wind howls through the trees just so, Tatyana stops what she’s doing. She listens.

A soft step on old floorboards. A gentle warmth near the crib. A guardian, still keeping watch.

The End.