I stood there, blinking, not believing my eyes. The yard was entirely covered in untouched, smooth snow—absolutely white, pristine.
But there were tracks.
From the gate to the house, leading right up to the windows of the first floor, were clear, very deep footprints. Men’s footprints.
They were from heavy, large boots. And they were definitely not Vernon’s.
I knew his shoes. I knew his size, his walk, the way he dragged his left heel slightly. These were completely strange tracks. Someone had come to our house at night. Someone had walked around the yard, come close to the windows, while I lay upstairs sleeping, completely alone.
I stood by the window, clutching the sill with fingers that had turned white. My heart pounded so hard and fast that it felt like a bird trying to batter its way out of a cage. I couldn’t tear my gaze away from the snow, trying to comprehend what I was seeing.
Deep, clear prints of heavy boots led from the very gate straight to the house. They methodically circled it on two sides, stopping at every single window of the ground floor, as if someone were carefully studying the interior.
My hands began to tremble. I stepped back from the window, pressing a palm to my mouth to hold back a frightened sob that was fighting to get out. Breathing became difficult, the air in the kitchen suddenly too thin.
Calm down, I told myself. Pull yourself together. Think.
Maybe it was a neighbor? No, that was impossible. The Petersons on the left were both over seventy. They barely left their porch in winter. Such deep, heavy tracks were definitely not theirs.
The lot on the right had been empty for a year; the owners moved to the city, and the house was boarded up. Across the street lived only Mrs. Higgins. Why would Mrs. Higgins from across the street walk around a stranger’s yard in a blizzard at night?
I forced myself to walk closer to the glass again, peering at the tracks with terrified scrutiny. They didn’t wander. They weren’t chaotic. They were purposeful. Thoughtful.
From the gate straight to the living room windows. Then, neatly along the wall to the kitchen windows. Further to the back of the house where the pantry and the basement entrance were.
It was as if someone were methodically walking the perimeter, carefully looking into every window, studying, watching, checking.
A cold chill ran down my spine, sharper than the winter air. Burglars? Scoping the place out?
But they took nothing. They didn’t try to break in. The gate was closed on a simple latch. The tracks led only from the gate into the yard and back out. That meant the person somehow opened it, walked through calmly, circled the house, then just as calmly closed the gate and left without rushing.
A sharp, piercing whistle suddenly sliced through the quiet.
The kettle on the stove was screaming. I jumped, my whole body shuddering at the sudden sound. I scrambled to turn off the gas with a trembling hand, but I didn’t even think about brewing the tea.
I had to do something. Urgently.
I needed to make a decision, and I needed to do it now. My first instinct was to call the police station’s main line, but then I hesitated. What exactly would I say? That at night, while the wind howled, someone walked around my yard but stole absolutely nothing? That they didn’t break a window or smash a lock? It sounded hysterical. It sounded like the ramblings of a lonely old woman spooked by a storm.
Then I remembered our community officer, Gareth Purnell.
I had known Gareth for many years, ever since he came to work in this precinct as a rookie, fresh-faced and eager. Now, he was over fifty, a seasoned veteran of the force, but he still worked with the same diligence he had in his twenties. He was known around the neighborhood as a conscientious, responsive man—the kind of cop you could actually talk to, not just report to.
I could definitely call him.
I quickly went up to the bedroom, my heart still racing like a trapped bird. I dressed hurriedly, pulling on whatever came to hand—warm sweatpants, a thick wool sweater that smelled faintly of lavender, and swapped my slippers for sturdy winter boots.
I snatched up my cell phone, my fingers fumbling as I scrolled through my contacts to find his number. My hands were still trembling nastily as I pressed the call button and held the phone to my ear.
“Officer Purnell, this is Alara Vance from Chestnut Street, House 17,” I blurted out the moment the line connected. “Please excuse me for calling so early, but I… I have a very strange situation here.”
“Good morning, Mrs. Vance.” The officer’s voice came through, familiar, calm, and slightly raspy, like gravel rolling over silk. It instantly grounded me. “What happened? You sound shaken.”
“Last night… someone came to my house. They walked around the yard, left tracks in the snow right up against the windows.” My voice cracked on the last word.
“I see.” Gareth’s tone shifted from polite to professional instantly. “Did anything go missing? Did they break the door? Are the windows intact?”
“No, everything seems whole and in place,” I said, glancing around the room as if the intruder might materialize from the wallpaper. “But the tracks… they lead right up to the windows from all sides. It looks like someone was purposely peeking inside or looking for something specific. It’s… it’s unsettling.”
Gareth Purnell was silent for a few seconds on the other end of the line, thinking. I could almost hear the gears turning.
“All right, I’ll come over right now,” he said firmly. “Twenty, thirty minutes max. Do not go out of the house for now. Do not trample the tracks under any circumstances—we need those preserved. And Mrs. Vance? Check all windows and doors thoroughly. Make sure everything is securely locked.”
“Thank you so much,” I exhaled, my knees going weak with relief. “I’ll wait for you.”
I put the phone on the bedside table and immediately began checking the house. I looked around with new, wary attention. The home that had been my sanctuary for thirty years now seemed foreign, hostile, unsafe. Every familiar creak of the floorboards, every rustle of the wind outside the window made me flinch nervously and spin around.
I methodically walked through all the rooms on the first floor, double-checking every latch. All the windows were tightly closed. Nowhere were there even the slightest signs of an attempted break-in; no scratches on the frames, no forced locks. The front door was locked with two turns of the key and the heavy chain, exactly as I had left it for the night before bed.
It seemed everything was in perfect order. But for some reason, this didn’t calm me down at all. On the contrary, it worried me even more. If they hadn’t tried to break in, what were they doing?
I walked again, as if drawn by a magnet, to the kitchen window, peering at the tracks again. Now, in the brighter morning light, they were visible even more clearly, and they were even more frightening.
They were very large. Very deep. The distance between steps was wide—a long stride.
Definitely a man. Tall, heavy, large build. He hadn’t been sneaking; he had walked leisurely, completely confidently, calmly. He knew exactly what he was doing and why he came.
The twenty minutes dragged on excruciatingly, unbearably long, stretching out like hours. I sat in the kitchen clutching a cup of completely cold tea in my trembling hands, and I literally could not take my tense gaze off the window. What if this unknown person returns right now? What if he is watching somewhere nearby, hiding behind the neighbors’ hedges, waiting for the right moment when I step out or get distracted?
Finally, bright headlights swept across the window, cutting through my panic.
I jumped up from the chair and looked out. It was the recognizable cruiser of the officer. Gareth Purnell got out of the car. He was a mountain of a man—tall, heavy-set, African-American, a little over fifty, dressed in a uniform winter jacket and a warm hat with the precinct badge on it.
I literally ran to the door, throwing it open before he could even reach the bell.
“Officer Purnell, thank you so much for coming so quickly,” I breathed out, stepping aside to let him into the warmth.
“Oh, think nothing of it, Mrs. Vance. It’s my job.” He deliberately stomped the stuck snow off his heavy boots on the porch, then walked after me into the kitchen.
His experienced gaze immediately caught the window and the view of the yard beyond. “Show me exactly where the tracks are.”
We went out together onto the cold porch. The frosty, prickly air painfully burned my flushed face and lungs, a sharp contrast to the heated kitchen. Officer Purnell slowly, thoroughly descended the creaking wooden steps, his eyes scanning the snowy yard like a hawk.
He walked right up to the tracks, carefully squatting down, ignoring the cold seeping into his trousers. He examined each print for a long time.
“Boots,” he muttered thoughtfully to himself, clearly estimating the dimensions. “Size twelve, maybe even thirteen. Deep-tread sole. Looks like work boots or combat boots.”