The Dog at 3:12 A.M.

Every night, the dog down the street howled at exactly 3:12 a.m. Not barking.

Not whining. Howling—like it was warning something. One night, the howling stopped.

That same night, I heard scratching at my door. Slow and patient. When I looked through

the peephole, I saw the dog sitting outside, staring straight at me.

Its mouth was open, but it wasn’t breathing. My phone buzzed. A local alert said the dog had been

hit by a car an hour ago. I stepped back from the door. The scratching continued.

Then a familiar voice whispered from the hallway, perfectly calm: “Open up.

It’s safe now.” The dog never had a voice.