Snowfall and Silence
The snow had started early that morning—thick, slow, and relentless. It poured from the clouds like someone had dumped sacks of flour into the sky and left them to spill, uncaring of where the flakes would fall. Every fencepost, treetop, and field had vanished beneath a heavy, ghost-white shroud.
A small sedan crept along a winding country road, the only splash of color in a world drained of it. Inside, the windshield wipers squeaked in a rhythmic, futile battle against the blizzard. The baby in the backseat let out a high, sharp cry, then quieted. Then cried again.
Igor gripped the steering wheel tightly. His hands were stiff with cold and tension, knuckles pale beneath the glow of the dashboard. He hadn’t said a word in over ten minutes. Not out of malice—just exhaustion.
Beside him, Tatyana sat slumped against the door, her cheek barely brushing the windowpane. She didn’t look out. Her eyes were vacant, her face drawn and gray. The move had taken everything from her—emotionally, physically. Her breathing was shallow, and the constant coughing fits had left her weak. The doctors had suggested clean air, quiet, simplicity.
Hence, the village. A place where time moved slowly, and the snow came early.
“Maybe we should turn on the radio?” Igor offered suddenly, not taking his eyes off the road.
“Why?” she asked quietly, her voice brittle. “To drown out the baby’s crying?”
Igor exhaled. He hadn’t expected an enthusiastic answer, but the bitterness in her tone stung.
“It’s starting again…” he muttered, more to himself than to her. Then louder: “I’m driving us through this blizzard, in your car—which, by the way, breaks down every other week—”
“My car?” she snapped. “Because you spent your savings on cigarettes and beers with friends instead of fixing the damn thing?”
The baby stirred again. Cried.
Igor’s grip tightened. He swerved slightly, correcting just in time as the wheels lost traction for a second.
“Perfect. We arrive in the village, try to start over—and you immediately start blaming me. Maybe we could just be quiet until we get there? Maybe we could pretend we’re a team, just for one hour.”
“Enough,” she whispered. “Just… shut up.”
Her head fell against the window. A single tear traced its way down her cheek, unnoticed.
The House
The road disappeared ahead of them, buried beneath feet of snow. And then—through a break in the trees—a shape emerged: a crooked blue house, hunched and sagging like it was tired of standing.
“There it is,” Igor said quietly, bringing the car to a halt at the edge of the field. “We’ve arrived.”
There was no driveway. Just snow.
Tatyana opened her door slowly, clutching their baby boy—Dima—wrapped tightly in a gray blanket. The wind immediately bit into her face, and she turned away from it, shielding the child. Her legs felt like stilts in the deep snow, and after only a few steps, she stumbled and fell to her knees.
The baby cried out.
“Tanya!” Igor rushed to her side, snatching the baby from her arms. “What are you doing? Be careful!”
“Don’t yell,” she said softly, her face pale. “Don’t shake him…”
“I know how to hold my own son,” he snapped, helping her up. She leaned on him without a word, and they trudged toward the house.
The porch groaned under their weight. The key scraped uselessly in the lock.
“Don’t fail me now…” Igor muttered, rattling the door. The key finally gave way, and the door creaked open into darkness.
Inside the Forgotten Walls
The smell hit them first. Mold, rot, damp wood. It was like opening a tomb.
Igor lifted his phone and turned on the flashlight. Piles of old sacks, broken tools, rope. Dust motes danced in the beam like tiny spirits.
“Oh my God,” Tatyana whispered. “Are we going to live here?”
“For now,” Igor replied. “We’ll clean. We’ll fix it.”
He tried to sound confident, but even he didn’t believe it.
He found a broom, banged it against the wall to loosen the worst of the cobwebs, and began sweeping. The noise echoed unnaturally in the hollow space. Bangs. Squeaks. The snap of brittle wood.
“This room,” he said eventually, nodding toward the least-damaged space. “We’ll make it the nursery. The radiators still work. The windows are double-paned.”
“The ceiling is cracked. There’s mold in the corner.”
“We’ll clean it. Dry it. Insulate it.”
She said nothing.
She sat down on the old couch and pulled her coat tighter around herself.
The baby slept in her arms, oblivious to the cold.
Igor nailed a picture hook into the wall to hang a blanket. His eyes caught a faded painting—The Nutcracker, sword raised, surrounded by mice.
“So much for your protector, Dimon,” Igor said with a bitter chuckle. “The Nutcracker is on guard.”
Night fell without warning, like a curtain dropping.
A distant sound made Tatyana freeze.
“Igor… Did you hear that?”
“Probably mice.”
“No…” She turned toward the window. “Someone’s crying. Outside.”
He strained his ears. And yes—there it was. A soft, drawn-out sound. Not quite a whimper. Not quite a howl.
“I’ll check,” he said, grabbing his coat.
The Visitor
In the snowdrift by the porch, a dog sat.
Brown. Mud-spattered. Fur stiff with ice. Her eyes were dark, intelligent, full of something too complex to be hunger or fear. She didn’t move as he approached.
“You’ll freeze, idiot,” Igor muttered, crouching down.
The dog blinked slowly.
“Let’s go,” he said and opened the door.
The dog stepped inside and went straight for the crib. She didn’t sniff around, didn’t explore. She walked to Dima’s side and sat, upright and still.
“What the hell?!” Tatyana gasped. “Get her away from the baby! Now!”
“She’s calm,” Igor insisted. “She’s just cold.”
“I don’t care. I don’t want her near him.”
“If anything happens, I’ll throw her out. Just… give her a chance.”
She turned her face away, lips trembling.
That night, they slept with the baby in their bed. The dog lay motionless at their feet—silent, like a statue carved from loyalty.
The wind howled outside.
The cold crept through the floorboards.
And in the middle of that darkness, a single warmth flickered to life.
Whispers of Trust
Morning in a Quiet House
The next morning, sunlight filtered through the cracked glass and danced across the frost-covered windowpanes. It cast strange, glinting patterns across the ceiling—like runes drawn in light.
Tatyana woke first.
She stirred beneath the worn blanket and reached for Dima. He was still sleeping—peacefully, deeply. The baby’s cheeks were pink, not flushed. His breath was steady. And—most surprising of all—Tatyana wasn’t coughing.
For the first time in weeks, her lungs didn’t ache. Her throat wasn’t burning. She just… breathed.
She sat up slowly.
That’s when she saw the dog.
The animal was lying beside the crib, stretched out, but not sleeping. Her ears were up, her eyes open. Watching. Guarding.
“You’re still here…” Tatyana whispered.
The dog blinked. Calmly. As if to say: Of course I am.
Down the hall, the sound of clinking dishes drifted in from the kitchen. A sizzling pan. The shuffle of slippers on cold floorboards.
Tatyana stood and padded toward the smell.
Igor stood at the stove, cracking eggs into a battered cast-iron skillet. He wore a sweater that was too big and shorts that revealed his pale, winter-starved legs. A soft hum escaped his lips—some old folk tune he used to sing before life got so heavy.
“We’re celebrating,” he said cheerfully, without turning around.
Tatyana raised an eyebrow.
“Celebrating?”
“Yes,” he said. “Breakfast. Clean air. And—get this—we have chickens now!”
She blinked. “Alive?”
“I bought one from Grandpa Misha, the neighbor across the ravine. Got a dozen fresh eggs with it.”
Tatyana stared at him, half-amused, half-incredulous.
And then she noticed the dog at her feet.
Still close.
Still silent.
Still watching.
Naming Her
“What’s her name?” Tatyana asked, her voice low.
Igor wiped his hands on a rag and turned.
“Lada,” he said. “After my grandmother.”
Tatyana frowned. “And you decided that… when?”
“Last night. Figured she earned one.”
“So, you just make decisions now?” she asked sharply. “The dog. The chicken. The name? Do I get a say?”
Igor sighed. He reached for a plate and scooped the eggs onto it.
“I didn’t mean to overstep. You’ve been so tired… I was trying to lighten the load. That’s all.”
She didn’t reply. Just walked to the table and sat down.
Lada followed, lying under the table like she’d always belonged there.
The breakfast was warm. The eggs rich and golden. The moment surprisingly gentle.
But the tension still hung in the air, like mist that wouldn’t burn off.
Fractures in the Quiet
Later that day, Igor set about insulating the windows. He stuffed rags into the frames, tacked up plastic sheets to trap the heat. Tatyana stayed close to the baby, wrapping herself in a heavy shawl and watching Lada with wary eyes.
The dog never strayed far from Dima.
She followed him from room to room, even stood alert outside the bathroom door when he was changed or bathed.
“Look at her,” Igor muttered once, observing. “It’s like she’s… monitoring him.”
“It’s not normal,” Tatyana replied. “Dogs don’t do that. Not like this.”
Igor stepped outside to smoke, wrapping his coat tightly around himself.
The air was bitter. The wind sliced across the yard. He lit a cigarette, the flame dancing against the wind, and drew in deeply.
A rustle made him turn.
Tatyana stood in the doorway, her shawl wrapped tight.
“Again?” she asked, arms crossed. “You promised you’d quit.”
“I’m trying,” he said, stubbing it out. “Stress.”
“You’re a father now. We both are trying.”
She turned to go, then paused.
“Don’t let her too close tonight. I don’t trust her.”
Igor said nothing.
That night, Lada slept again at the foot of the crib.
And the snow began to fall heavier.
The Growl
Sometime past midnight, Tatyana woke up in a sweat.
A strange heaviness filled the room. A silence so deep it screamed.
And then… a sound.
A low growl.
She sat up. Lada stood by the crib, back rigid, every hair raised. Her teeth bared. Her eyes locked on the far corner of the room.
“Igor,” Tatyana whispered. “Wake up.”
He groaned, rubbed his eyes. “What is it?”
“Look at her…”
He sat up slowly. When his eyes adjusted, he saw it too. Lada wasn’t barking. She wasn’t frantic. She was… focused. Like a soldier.
Her eyes never left the corner of the room.
“Maybe she saw a mouse?” Igor offered weakly.
“Don’t,” Tatyana snapped. “Don’t explain this away.”
He got up and walked slowly to the dog.
“Lada…” he whispered, reaching for her collar.
She flinched—just slightly—but didn’t back down.
He led her out of the room and shut the door behind her.
“If you’re going to drive us insane,” he muttered, “you’ll sleep in the barn.”
But Lada didn’t resist.
She walked to the barn door, sat, and curled up in the hay.
As if she knew she needed to wait.
A Change in the Air
The following days moved slowly.
Tatyana’s cough returned. The baby cried more often. The walls of the house groaned as the temperature dropped.
But the biggest shift was in the silence.
The house no longer felt hollow. It didn’t echo like a cave. It listened.
Igor patched more windows. Brought in extra firewood. Tried to keep his hands busy.
But he could feel it too—something strange. A weight. A pressure. As if the house itself was holding its breath.
He went to the barn one morning and found something that turned his stomach.
One of the chickens was dead.
Its neck twisted, feathers scattered across the floor. Its eyes dull and glassy.
Next to it—paw prints.
Large ones.
And blood on the snow.
He turned slowly.
Lada stood near the corner, her muzzle stained.
“I trusted you…” he whispered.
Tatyana emerged from the house and froze when she saw the scene.
“Is that her?” she asked.
Igor nodded slowly.
“Oh God,” she breathed. “I told you. I told you!”
“Tanya—”
“No. Either she goes, or I do.”
She disappeared into the house. A moment later, Igor heard the soft pop of a bottle cap—her sleeping pills.
He turned back to Lada.
She stood still. Silent.
He tried not to cry.
The Farewell
He couldn’t carry her. She wouldn’t let him. But eventually, she climbed into the car on her own.
He didn’t speak during the drive. Snow battered the windshield. The world felt white, flat, endless.
He stopped at the bridge and opened the door.
She stepped out, looked at him once, and walked away.
He didn’t turn back.
When he returned, the house was darker. Colder. Quieter.
Tatyana didn’t mention the dog.
And Igor didn’t sleep that night.
The snowstorm continued, unrelenting.
But something inside him had broken loose.
Something that whispered:
You made a mistake.
The Return
A Cold Awakening
Igor didn’t sleep. Not really.
He closed his eyes and waited for rest, but his mind kept circling back to the image of Lada walking away through the snow, alone. Her prints had vanished quickly in the wind, swallowed by the blizzard.
Now, the house felt… hollow. The floors creaked a little louder, the wind slipped in through the cracks a little sharper, and even the baby’s cries felt more strained—as if Dima knew something was missing.
Tatyana moved through the house like a shadow. She didn’t mention Lada, didn’t gloat or mourn. But Igor noticed the difference—her shoulders hunched deeper, her voice quieter. And she was coughing again.
The warmth they’d begun to build was fading.
In the middle of the night, the silence shattered.
Scratch.
Rustle.
Igor sat up instantly. The sound had come from behind the wall.
Scratch-scratch.
He moved slowly, listening. It was deliberate. Repetitive. Like claws.
Tatyana stirred.
“What is that?” she asked, half-asleep.
“Just mice,” Igor said. But his voice shook.
He walked the perimeter of the house. Nothing. Wind. Snow. Trees. Silence.
He crushed the cigarette pack in his hand and tossed it into the fireplace.
He was done pretending that everything was fine.
The Return
The next evening, just after dark, Igor went out to split firewood. The axe bit deep into the logs, each thud echoing like a drum in the frozen stillness.
And then—movement.
Out of the corner of his eye, something brown streaked through the trees.
He turned quickly.
Nothing.
His breath fogged the air in front of him. His boots sank into the snow.
He turned to head back toward the porch—and froze.
She was there.
Covered in snow, her coat matted, eyes glowing faintly in the light from the window.
“Lada…” he whispered.
She didn’t bark. Didn’t wag her tail. Just walked straight past him.
She rammed the door open with her shoulder, straight into the house.
“Igor!” Tatyana shouted inside. “What the hell?!”
He ran in after her. “I didn’t—she just—”
“Look at the baby!”
Dima’s crib was overturned. The blanket crumpled. The air was thick with tension.
And Lada stood, panting, blood on her muzzle.
“I told you!” Tatyana screamed. “She’s gone mad! I told you to get rid of her!”
But then the dog turned.
Something long and gray dropped from her mouth.
A tail. A massive, filthy rat tail.
The rat hit the floor with a sickening thud.
It was the size of a cat, grotesque and limp, its fur matted and yellowed teeth bared in death.
Tatyana’s scream pierced the house.
The Real Danger
Igor moved first.
He bent, picked up the rat by its tail, and held it up to the light.
The thing was monstrous. Diseased. Its belly swollen. Claws long and crooked.
Lada stood between Dima and the rat, her ears back, body trembling, but unyielding.
She had saved him.
She had been guarding him.
And they had cast her out.
Tatyana sank to her knees in front of Lada, shaking.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry… If you hadn’t come back—if you hadn’t been here…”
Tears rolled down her cheeks as she pressed her forehead to the dog’s.
Igor couldn’t speak.
He carried the dead rat outside, buried it under a mound of snow, his hands trembling the entire time.
Then he returned inside, sat down beside his wife and their dog, and placed his hand on Lada’s back.
She was warm. Still.
Present.
Tatyana looked at him. “It’s her. Your grandmother. She came back through her. I know it.”
Igor didn’t argue.
He only nodded.
Because somehow, he knew it too.
The Shift
The next morning, sunlight poured through the windows. Bright, golden, warm.
Dima slept peacefully. No coughing. No restlessness.
Tatyana stood at the stove, her hair tied back, spooning semolina porridge into bowls. Her back was straight, her voice steady.
“I want her to stay,” she said softly. “Permanently.”
Igor looked down.
Lada sat beside him, her head resting gently on his knee.
He stroked her fur.
“That’s good,” he said quietly. “She’s not just family now. She’s our protector.”
From that day on, the house felt different.
The air was lighter.
The walls no longer groaned under invisible weight.
And Lada—quiet, noble Lada—remained faithfully at Dima’s side.
The Guardian at the Gate
Spring Tensions
The days began to stretch. The sun stayed longer above the horizon. Snow melted in slow patches around the house, revealing dormant earth, skeletal grass, and muddy footprints that no longer led anywhere. The wind no longer howled—it hummed, as if cautiously curious about the new life stirring within the walls of the blue, crooked house.
Inside, things were changing too.
Tatyana’s cheeks had color again. Her eyes held something resembling rest. Igor was more often smiling than silent. He had taken to carving little wooden animals in the evenings, whittling them with care while the radio played old folk songs.
And Dima was thriving.
He grew stronger, louder, more curious. His giggles rang like bells through the hallway. Every time he crawled across the living room rug, Lada trailed just behind—silent, vigilant, tail wagging slowly.
The house felt inhabited.
It felt like home.
But even as light filled the house, there were shadows outside.
Unwanted Visitors
It started with laughter.
Sharp, mocking, distant.
Igor was in the barn, fixing a broken latch when he heard it—three voices, boys maybe, jeering. He peeked around the door.
Three teenagers stood near the fence, their coats tattered, boots crusted with old snow. One of them had a stick. Another picked up a stone and hurled it toward the house.
Tatyana appeared at the window and shouted, “Hey! Stop that!”
The boys laughed and mimicked her voice.
Igor stormed out. “Get lost!”
One of them flipped him off before they scattered, disappearing into the woods like smoke.
Tatyana came outside.
“What the hell was that about?”
“Farm boys. Bored,” Igor muttered. “They’ve got nothing to do but make trouble.”
The next day, there were bootprints in the snow near the windows.
And chicken feathers in the yard.
Igor was furious.
But Lada?
Lada was waiting.
The Standoff
A few days later, they returned.
The same three—though this time they were bolder. They stomped up the drive, clanging sticks along the fence posts, daring someone to challenge them.
Lada stepped onto the porch.
She didn’t bark.
She didn’t growl.
She just looked at them—head high, ears forward, eyes locked.
The boys froze.
One of them took a single step forward.
Lada moved one paw in response.
He stepped back.
Then, wordless, all three turned and ran.
Not one of them looked back.
From that day forward, no one approached the house uninvited.
The New Season
The house shed its icicles and took its first breath of spring.
Wildflowers crept up through cracks in the snow. The barn took on the scent of fresh straw instead of rot. The trees shivered green buds to life.
Inside, laughter returned.
Tatyana danced in the kitchen while porridge simmered.
Igor carved a wooden cradle for Dima.
And Lada?
Lada still stood guard.
She slept less now. She followed Dima more closely. She seemed to hear things others didn’t—turning her head to sounds Igor never caught, moving between shadows before anyone else sensed motion.
Sometimes she would stand for hours at the foot of the stairs, as if waiting for something only she could see.
“She’s different,” Tatyana said one evening, brushing Dima’s hair while he played with a toy horse.
“She’s always been different,” Igor answered.
But he understood what Tatyana meant.
Lada wasn’t just a dog.
She was presence.
And she was waiting for something.
The Storm Returns
It came with a dream.
Tatyana woke up gasping, her eyes wide with panic.
“She was gone,” she whispered. “Lada. Gone. And something else was inside.”
Igor pulled her close. “It was just a dream.”
But a heavy knock at the door made them both jump.
Igor grabbed a coat and went to the porch.
There was no one there.
But the footprints—large, deep, unshod—led from the woods to the porch… and then nowhere.
They ended at the door.
Igor stepped outside and scanned the tree line.
Nothing.
Lada stood inside the doorway, growling low.
That night, no one slept.
What Lurks in the Corners
Something in the Walls
The tension that had once left the house returned—but this time, it was different. Colder. More targeted. It wasn’t just the creaking of old wood or the chill that clung to corners. It was something else.
The baby began waking more often.
Tatyana would find Dima in the crib, wide-eyed, fists clenched, trembling as though something had hovered over him in his sleep.
The cough came back, worse than before.
“I’m boiling water with thyme again,” Igor said one night, placing a steaming pot in the room. “Like your grandmother used to do.”
Tatyana sat on the couch, pale. Her hand rested on Dima’s tiny foot. “It’s not the cold,” she whispered. “It’s not sickness. Something is… wrong.”
Igor didn’t argue.
That night, they heard the scratching again.
This time, it came from inside the walls.
Not like mice—too loud.
Not like rats—too slow.
Igor picked up the axe and pried open a rotting plank behind the stove.
Nothing.
But Lada stood behind him, fur bristling, eyes locked on the darkness like it had a name.
The Second Attack
It happened just after midnight.
The baby was sleeping soundly. Igor had fallen asleep in the chair, whittling a spoon. Tatyana was brushing her hair.
And then Lada erupted in barking. Wild, sharp, primal.
Igor bolted upright.
“What is it?!” Tatyana cried.
From the crib, Dima wailed.
Lada had lunged toward the window—scratching, snarling, throwing herself at the sill like she was possessed.
Then, with a sickening crack, the glass broke inward. Not shattered—caved. Something had tried to enter.
Igor grabbed the axe again, but when he rushed outside, there was only the wind. Snow. Silence.
But he saw them—prints.
Humanoid, barefoot, too large. Leading to the woods. And just behind them…
Dog prints.
Smaller.
Fresh.
Lada had chased something before.
And it had come back.
A Choice
Back inside, Lada sat in front of the baby’s crib, unmoving.
Igor closed and boarded the broken window. “We can’t stay here tonight.”
Tatyana shook her head. “We can’t leave. What if it follows?”
“It’s not just the house,” she continued. “It’s the land. Something old. Something angry.”
Lada looked at her.
“I don’t know what you are,” Tatyana whispered to the dog. “But I know why you’re here.”
Lada licked the baby’s foot gently, then turned her head back toward the door.
“I think she knew this would happen,” Igor said, almost to himself. “Your grandmother. When we moved here… it wasn’t just for rest. It was to fulfill something.”
Tatyana didn’t ask what.
They didn’t sleep.
Lada stood guard all night, unmoving.
The scratching never returned.
But they all knew—it wasn’t over.
Part 6: The Last Winter
Peace… For a While
Weeks passed. The house repaired. The warmth returned.
Dima started walking.
Igor gave up cigarettes entirely.
Tatyana’s cough vanished again, slowly.
And Lada? She remained ever-present. A sentinel in silence.
She greeted neighbors with soft tail wags. She escorted Dima across the yard like a gentle shadow. When the rooster crowed, she trotted to the barn and waited as if clocking in.
People in the village began to talk.
“Never seen a dog like her,” one old farmer said.
“She’s not just guarding,” another murmured. “She’s watching. Like she’s waiting.”
But the family stopped questioning it.
They accepted her not as a pet—but as something older. Sacred.
A New Arrival
Spring came again. The house seemed younger.
Tatyana gave birth to a baby girl—dark lashes, healthy lungs, and the strongest cry the midwife had ever heard.
Igor wept openly.
Dima danced around the room in oversized felt boots.
And Lada stood by the door, quiet as ever.
“She’s a princess,” Igor whispered to Tatyana. “She gets the red carpet treatment.”
They rolled out an old carpet across the porch, the snow still melting in patches. Igor carried Tatyana and the baby down the path, Lada walking at their side like a knight beside a queen.
Neighbors peeked through curtains.
Some crossed themselves.
Others whispered prayers.
But no one dared interfere.
The Departure
The years passed gently.
Until the winter that came late—slow, gray, and long.
Lada was old now.
She still followed Dima and the little girl, still stood at the edge of the forest with ears high when the wind carried something strange.
But her pace was slower.
Her sleep deeper.
And then one morning, she didn’t get up.
Igor found her in the corner of the nursery. She had curled herself into a crescent, nose tucked under paw, eyes closed.
She was gone.
Tatiana sat beside her for hours.
Dima brought her a wooden toy and laid it beside her ear.
The little girl, only five, asked, “Will she come back?”
“No,” Igor said gently. “But she’s still with us.”
That night, they buried her beneath the strongest birch behind the house.
Igor built a marker with his own hands.
Dima carved a name into the wood: LADA. OUR GUARDIAN.
Legacy
Time softened everything, even pain.
The children grew.
The family thrived.
Visitors to the village often remarked how peaceful the house seemed.
How light the air was inside.
How safe.
And every spring, a single line of wildflowers bloomed around the birch where Lada lay.
No one planted them.
They just came.
As if to say: Still here. Still watching.
And late at night, when the wind picked up, and the children curled close under their blankets, sometimes Tatyana would pause and swear—
She heard soft steps across the floor.
A weight settle near the crib.
And then… peace.
THE END
