The snow fell in thick, unrelenting waves as Igor and Tatyana arrived at the crooked blue house on the edge of the village. Moving here had been a last resort—Tatyana’s worsening cough, the doctors’ insistence on fresh air, and the exhausting noise of the city. But the house was worse than they’d imagined: rotting wood, cracked ceilings, and the smell of damp decay clinging to every corner. Their baby, Dima, cried in the backseat, his sharp wails breaking through the muffled silence of the blizzard.
Pale and hollow-eyed, Tatyana barely had the strength to carry him inside. Igor clenched his jaw as he forced the stiff door open, revealing a darkness that seemed to swallow them whole. The Arrival of Lada – The first night was unbearable—wind howling through gaps, cold seeping into their bones. Then, just before dawn, a sound at the door. A dog stood in the snowdrift, brown fur matted with ice, eyes dark and knowing. She didn’t whine or beg. She simply looked at them—as if waiting for an invitation.
Against Tatyana’s protests, Igor let her in. The dog—whom Igor named Lada after his grandmother—went straight to Dima’s crib and sat down, motionless. The First Warning – Days passed. The house warmed. Tatyana’s cough eased. But Lada never left Dima’s side. She followed him like a shadow, her ears pricked at sounds no one else heard.
Then, one night, a low growl woke them. Lada stood rigid, teeth bared, staring into the darkest corner of the room. Tatyana clutched Dima, heart pounding. “What is she looking at?” Igor saw nothing. But the air felt wrong—heavy, thick, as if something unseen pressed in. The Rat and the Truth – They tried to send Lada away after she killed a chicken. Tatyana, convinced the dog was dangerous, insisted.