Dingos Surrounded the Baby, but Something Older Watched From the Ridge

Wind in the Nursery

It was almost 2:17 in the morning. again when Clara woke up to a peculiar sound of fabric rustling that was as steady as her breath. She walked softly to Elsie's chamber. The window, which she had closed and locked earlier, was now open. The drapes moved in, not out, even though the wind outside had stopped. Elsie was sleeping with her stuffed possum.

Her lips moved slowly, saying the same strange chant over and over. Clara stood still, her heart racing. She locked the window and remained by the crib with a notebook until morning. She wrote down everything Elsie said, sure that each night got her closer to something. Someone was listening.

The Tracks on the Roof

Tom didn't believe her when she said the window. Until it rained. He went up to check the solar panels the next morning and froze. There were five definite impressions in the dust along the edge of the corrugated metal. They were long toes that were slightly spread out and positioned in a way that no wild dog could balance. Not jumping. Perched. Looking. He took pictures of them, brought them inside, and put them on top of a reference of known animal prints. None of them matched. Clara leaned over his shoulder and said in a low voice, "It wasn't the dingos." Tom nodded, his face pale. "We need to know what lives out here that doesn't leave."