The clerk had just finished scanning the last of the groceries when the elderly woman in front of me began patting her pockets, her face falling with each failed attempt. Her name, I later learned, was Helen Brooks, and she looked old enough that the simple act of carrying the bagged items would strain her. I stepped forward and said I’d cover it. She protested, but her voice trembled, embarrassed and grateful at the same time.
As we walked out of the store together, she leaned closer, lowering her voice with an intensity that startled me.
“When your husband leaves,” she whispered, “don’t touch the snow in the yard.”
I laughed—awkwardly, because her eyes were fixed on mine in a way that felt deliberate rather than senile. I told her I appreciated the advice and assumed it was some old superstition. She thanked me again, then shuffled to her car.
By the time I got home, the moment felt like nothing more than a strange but harmless interaction with an eccentric stranger. My husband, Daniel, was already placing salt along the walkway, grumbling about the incoming storm. We spent the evening quietly—he answered emails; I folded laundry. Nothing unusual. Before bed, he mentioned he’d be leaving early for a meeting across town.

It snowed heavily overnight. White silence swallowed the yard, the driveway, the porch steps—everything blanketed in a fresh, untouched sheet. I remembered the woman’s words only as a funny anecdote I planned to tell Daniel later.

But the next morning, when I opened the front door and stepped onto the porch, the air was sharp enough to sting my lungs. The sun was bright against the snow’s surface, and for a second the glare forced me to shield my eyes. When they adjusted, I saw it.

Tracks.

Not normal tracks—one single set, starting from the far side of the yard, cutting across in a near-perfect diagonal line, stopping directly beneath our living room window. The snow around the tracks was untouched, smooth, pristine. Someone had walked straight up to the glass in the middle of the night.

My legs weakened. I gripped the railing to keep myself upright.

The prints weren’t Daniel’s. He’d left through the garage; his route would have gone nowhere near the yard. These steps were heavier, deeper, one foot dragging slightly. They ended inches from the siding, as though the person had stood there for minutes, watching.

I glanced back at the house. The curtains in the living room were exactly as I’d left them—slightly open, facing the yard.

The elderly woman’s whisper replayed in my mind with sudden clarity:

“When your husband leaves, don’t touch the snow in the yard.”

And now the warning no longer felt superstitious.

It felt precise

I forced myself to step back inside, locking the door without making a sound, as if the person who had made the prints could still be nearby. My heart hammered against my ribs. Daniel’s coffee mug sat on the counter, still warm, confirming he hadn’t been gone long. I tried calling him, but it rang endlessly before going to voicemail.

Something about the tracks bothered me beyond their existence: the spacing. Whoever walked across the yard had a long stride, maybe someone at least six feet tall. The left foot had that faint drag, consistent with someone compensating for an old injury—or carrying something heavy.

I drew the curtains closed. Every muscle told me to run upstairs and hide, but instinct pushed me toward understanding instead of panic. I grabbed a coat but stayed inside, pacing, replaying yesterday at the store.

Why would a total stranger warn me?
What had she seen?
Or heard?

I pulled up the store receipt. The name wasn’t printed on it, but I remembered the clerk greeting her as “Mrs. Brooks.” A quick online search brought up dozens of Brooks in the county. Narrowing them down by age took longer. I found a Helen Brooks, widow, late seventies, living just a few blocks from the store.

I hesitated before calling the number listed. The phone rang twice.

“Hello?” a voice rasped.

“Mrs. Brooks? This is—well, we met at the store yesterday. You warned me about the snow.”

Silence. Long enough that I wondered if she had hung up.

Then: “Did you touch it?”

“No,” I whispered. “But there are footprints in my yard. Someone came up to my window.”

Another silence, this one heavier.

“Is your husband home?”

“He left early. He’s not answering his phone.”

Her voice lowered. “Listen to me. Do not go outside. Do not disturb those tracks.”

“What is going on?”

But she didn’t answer immediately. Instead, I heard shuffling, as if she were covering the receiver. When she spoke again, her tone had changed—less cryptic, more grim.

“Last winter, my neighbor found footprints like that in her yard. Only one set. Coming toward the house. Not away from it.”

I swallowed. “What happened to her?”

“She thought it was nothing. She shoveled it away.”

“And?”

“She didn’t realize the police needed the prints preserved. Whoever made them came back the next night. Came back again. Eventually… he got inside.”

My blood turned to ice.

“You’re saying it’s the same person?”

“I can’t know that. But the pattern—”

A loud thud echoed from the back of my house. I froze, phone clutched tight.

“Mrs. Brooks… someone’s here.”

“Stay on the line.”

I tiptoed toward the hallway, every board creaking louder than normal. Another sound—a faint metallic click, like a latch being tested.

“Call the police,” she urged.

But before I could, my phone vibrated. A new call. From Daniel.

I switched lines instantly.

“Daniel? Are you okay?”

His voice was low, urgent.

“Don’t go near the backyard. Don’t touch the snow. And whatever you do—don’t let anyone inside. I’m on my way home. Lock every door.”

“Why? Daniel, what’s happening?”

He hesitated, breathing hard.

“I think someone’s been following me.”

His words didn’t sound theoretical—they sounded experienced. My mind raced.

“You think the same person followed you and came to the house?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” he replied. “But last night, when I took the trash out, I heard someone behind me. Heavy footsteps. When I turned, they stopped. I thought it was just the wind. But when I left this morning… I saw a car parked across the street. Same car that was behind me yesterday when I left work.”

A cold pressure wrapped around my spine.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t want to worry you. I thought it was nothing.”

Before I could respond, that metallic click came again from the back door. This time unmistakably deliberate. I ducked behind the kitchen island.

“Daniel, someone’s trying the door.”

“Stay hidden. The police station is five minutes away—I’m calling them now. Don’t make a sound.”

I ended the call so he could phone them, then listened. The handle jiggled once more. Whoever was out there wasn’t rushing. They were patient. Testing. Evaluating.

The footsteps outside shifted direction, crunching through snow toward the side of the house—slow, uneven, matching the drag in the prints. I crawled to the living room, keeping low. The curtains were closed, but a faint outline moved past the window.

My breath caught.

The figure stopped—just like the prints outside indicated someone had done hours earlier—right where the glass met the wall. The silhouette leaned forward slightly, head tilted, as if listening. Those few seconds stretched into something unbearable.

Then the footsteps moved again, retreating around the corner.

I grabbed my phone and dialed Daniel.

“He’s circling the house,” I whispered.

“I’m almost there. Stay put.”

The next sound wasn’t footsteps. It was the garage door keypad beeping.

One digit.
Pause.
Two digits.
Another pause.

My heart plunged.

“Daniel,” I whispered, “he’s trying the garage code. How would he know—”

“He shouldn’t,” Daniel cut in. “He shouldn’t know any of it.”

But someone did.

My eyes darted across the room until they landed on Daniel’s work bag by the sofa. His identification badge was clipped to the outside. The logo of his company—a data security firm—was printed clearly.

“Does your job involve anything sensitive?” I asked.

“At times,” he replied slowly. “But nothing worth this. Unless—”

Before he could finish, the sound outside stopped. Complete stillness. I strained to hear anything—breathing, movement—but the silence was oppressive.

Then a car engine roared to life. Tires crunched. The vehicle sped away.

Seconds later, sirens approached.

Three patrol cars arrived almost simultaneously with Daniel. Officers swept the yard and the perimeter, then moved inside. Their faces grew increasingly sober as they examined the footprints.

One officer knelt near the window.

“These prints are fresh. Heavy person, possibly carrying weight. One foot dragging. Probably male.”

Another officer photographed the single track across the yard.

“No return prints. Which means he didn’t walk away.”

“So he left in the car?” I asked.

“Most likely.”

But something about the officers’ posture told me they were hiding their real concern.

Later, after they finished taking statements, Daniel sat beside me on the couch. His hands were shaking.

“There’s something I didn’t want to admit,” he said quietly. “Last week, at work… we had a break-in. Not in the building—someone tampered with my car. Nothing was stolen. But my glove compartment was open. My old address book was gone.”

My breath froze.

“Daniel… who was in that book?”

He swallowed.

“Everyone I ever worked with on sensitive projects. Old coworkers. Investigators. A couple of consultants. And… us. Our home address.”

The dots connected with grim clarity. Someone wasn’t stalking randomly.

They were moving down a list.

And we were next.