I paid for an elderly woman’s groceries, and she whispered: “When your husband leaves tonight, do not touch the snow.” My husband ordered me to shovel the drive, but I stayed inside. The next morning, I stepped onto the porch and froze. Under the pristine white layer, I saw something that proved my husband’s “night run” was a lie. If I had touched that snow, I would have been clearing my own burial site.

I knew his shoes, his size, his walk. These tracks were different. Someone had come to our house at night. They had walked around the yard, come close to the windows, while I remained completely alone inside.

I stood by the window, clutching the windowsill with whitened fingers. My heart pounded so hard it felt like it would crack a rib.

Deep, clear prints led from the very gate straight to the house. They methodically circled it on two sides, stopping at every window of the ground floor as if someone were carefully studying the house. Someone had walked around my house at night while I slept, defenseless.

My hands trembled. I stepped back from the window, pressing my palm to my mouth to hold back a frightened sob.

I forced myself to look again. The tracks did not go chaotically. They were purposeful. They went from the gate to the living room windows, then neatly along the wall to the kitchen windows, further to the back of the house where the pantry and basement entrance were. It was as if someone were methodically walking the perimeter, checking. Watching.

A cold chill ran down my spine. Burglars? But they took nothing. The gate was closed on a simple latch. The lock was intact. The tracks led only from the gate into the yard and back.

That meant the person somehow opened it, walked through calmly, circled the house, then just as calmly closed the gate and left.

The kettle on the stove whistled piercingly. I shuddered violently. I turned off the gas with a trembling hand. I had to do something.

I remembered our community officer, Gareth Pernell. I had known him for many years. He was a conscientious, responsive man. I grabbed my cell phone, my fingers fumbling as I dialed.

“Officer Pernell… this is Elara Vance from Chestnut Street… I have a very strange situation here.”

“Good morning, Mrs. Vance,” his calm, raspy voice answered. “What happened?”

“Last night… someone came to my house. They walked around the yard. Left tracks in the snow. I was home alone. My husband left for a long haul… I’m scared.”

“Did they break in?”