A PEACEFUL MORNING, NOT

The sun stretched its golden fingers across the neighborhood, casting a warm glow that made everything seem safe. Birds chirped their morning songs from telephone wires, and a soft breeze carried the sweet scent of lilacs from Mrs. Barker's garden. It was a morning like any other—calm, familiar, and utterly deceiving.

The street buzzed with life. Children laughed as they raced down the sidewalk, their backpacks bouncing with each step. A milk truck rattled past, and from open windows, the clatter of dishes and the murmur of radios blended into the melody of a neighborhood fully awake.

At her small wooden stall near the corner, Amelia Mayhew arranged fresh loaves of bread in neat rows. The warm, yeasty scent wrapped around her like a comforting embrace. She loved these mornings—simple, predictable, and peaceful. But something was off today.

Her eyes flicked down the road toward Mrs. Barker's house. The old woman always arrived before anyone else, with her familiar, scratchy voice calling out, "Morning, dear! Got my loaf ready?" But today... nothing. The house sat still, its shutters closed tight as if the windows themselves were holding their breath.

Amelia's brow furrowed. "Strange," she muttered, wiping her hands on her apron.

By now, Mrs. Barker would have walked over in her floral dress, clutching that worn-out straw purse. She was a creature of habit—never late, never a no-show. Amelia glanced at the clock on the church tower. 8:12 a.m. Almost twenty minutes past her usual time.

"She probably overslept," Amelia said aloud, though the words felt hollow. She hesitated, her fingers tapping the counter. Should she check in? Curiosity battled with an uneasy whisper crawling up her spine.

The line at her stall had vanished, and the morning rush slowed. Finally, she gave in to the gnawing feeling. Tucking her apron, she crossed the street, the gravel crunching beneath her worn shoes.

Mrs. Barker's house stood silently, the curtains drawn. The picket fence, usually welcoming with its blooming rose vines, felt oddly foreboding. The air smelled different here. Beneath the floral sweetness lingered something metallic—something wrong.

Amelia paused at the porch, her heart ticking faster. "Mrs. Barker?" she called softly, then louder, "It's Amelia! You okay?"

No answer. Only the low whisper of the wind.

Her hand trembled as she knocked on the door. The soft rap echoed inside, too loud in the silence. She tried the handle—it turned.

The door creaked open with a groan that made her skin crawl. "Hello?" she called, stepping inside. The house smelled of lavender and fresh-baked pie—but beneath it...

Amelia's nose wrinkled. Copper. Thick and sharp.

Her eyes scanned the room. Nothing seemed out of place. The cozy living room, with its lace curtains and framed photos, looked undisturbed. But the air felt... wrong. Stale. Suffocating.

A soft scuff drew her attention to the kitchen. Slowly, she stepped forward, her heart pounding in her ears.

And then she saw her.

Mrs. Barker.

Crumbled against the counter, her body twisted unnaturally. Her eyes—wide, glassy, and locked in an expression of terror—stared into nothing. Blood, dark and congealed, pooled beneath her, seeping into the cracks of the wooden floor. Her hands... oh God, her hands—shredded, fingers bent backward, nails cracked as if she'd fought for her life.

Amelia's throat closed. A cold, guttural scream clawed out of her chest.

The sound shattered the peace of the morning. Birds scattered from the trees, and windows flew open as neighbors peered out, faces etched with confusion.

Within seconds, the street flooded with people, their chatter swelling into a panicked buzz.

"What happened?"

"Who screamed?"

"Is that... Mrs. Barker?"

Amelia stumbled back from the doorway, her face ghostly pale. She clutched her apron to her chest, her breath ragged. "She—she's—" Her voice cracked, but the terror in her eyes said enough.

Gasps rippled through the crowd. A woman clutched her child tighter; a man pulled his wife close.

"Someone—" Amelia's voice trembled. "Someone... killed her."

The wail of a siren pierced the air, and an old black cruiser pulled up, dust swirling behind it. Out stepped Marshal Everett Crane, his broad-shouldered frame casting a long shadow. He wore his usual faded hat, but his sharp eyes, cold and calculating, missed nothing. He'd seen death before—too much of it. But the air felt heavier here.

"Everyone step back!" he ordered, his voice cutting through the rising panic. "Clear the area."

The crowd parted, uneasy murmurs following him as he crossed the threshold into the house. His boot squelched against the blood-soaked floor. He paused, taking in the scene with the meticulous eye of a man who'd walked through hell and back.

Mrs. Barker's body was a ruin.

Everett's jaw tightened. He knelt beside her, studying the mangled hands. Defensive wounds. She'd fought. Hard.

But there were no signs of a struggle—no broken furniture, no smashed dishes. Just blood. A lot of it. And something else—a sensation that made his skin prickle, as if the air itself recoiled.

His fingers brushed the floor... Cold. Colder than it should be.

"Who found her?" he called.

A shaking voice answered from the doorway. "I—I did." Amelia stepped forward, her face ashen.

Everett rose, his sharp gaze pinning her in place. "What time?"

"A little after eight. She... she never came for her bread. I... I checked, and—" Her voice broke, and she pressed her knuckles to her mouth.

Everett softened slightly. "You did the right thing."

Outside, the crowd murmured in confusion and fear. Whispers flitted through the air:

"Did she fall?"

"No—no, look at those scratches—"

"An animal, maybe?"

"Here? In her kitchen?"

Everett stepped back into the doorway. "Anyone hear anything unusual last night? Screams, animals, anything?"

A silence followed, thick and uneasy. Finally, a voice piped up—old Mr. Calloway from next door.

"No... but my dog, Rudy. He was barking like the devil hisself. All night. Wouldn't stop."

Everett's eyes narrowed. "Did you check outside?"

Calloway shook his head. "Figured it was a raccoon." His voice dropped. "Wish I had."

Everett felt the weight of unseen eyes, the kind that pressed from the shadows. He glanced back at Mrs. Barker's still form. "This wasn't a raccoon," he muttered. "This... this was something else."

By midday, the entire town buzzed with the news. The story twisted with every telling—some swore it was a wild animal attack, others whispered of something worse, something unseen. But beneath every theory, one thing was clear:

They weren't safe.

Amelia sat on the bakery's stoop, her hands still trembling. A neighbor offered her tea, but the cup rattled against the saucer as she held it. She couldn't stop seeing Mrs. Barker's face—frozen in horror, eyes that had seen something.

Marshal Everett stood nearby, his fingers grazing his chin. The body was being taken to the morgue, but no answers followed. He felt the questions pressing against his ribs.

Who?

Why?

How... without a sound?

A sudden gust rattled the trees, and for a fleeting second, the air felt colder. Everett's gut twisted, an instinct honed from years of facing things he could explain—and things he couldn't.

And in the distance, from somewhere unseen...

A soft, dragging sound, like claws across wood.

The day was bright. The street was full. But something... something was already watching.

And it was far from over.