Cole Burkhardt

I could hear the slight whine in Nugget's bark, and I knew it was out of fear.

She thought she was defending the house.

"'Be quiet, Nugget,' I pleaded under my breath.

"'Please, please be quiet.'

She barked again and again.

The weeping woman began pushing herself to her feet, brushstrokes of the painting distorting with every achingly slow movement."

I wanted to hope she'd leave my dogs alone, since they weren't human, but I knew better.

I called them kids all the time, and if she could hear, she probably heard me call them that when I investigated the mural a week prior.

She wanted children.

and the closest ones she could find were announcing themselves in my backyard.

In a burst of adrenaline and paternal instinct, I floored the accelerator, skidding on the gravel as I barreled towards my house.

Our street is mercifully short, but it still felt like ours.

As I grew closer, the brushstrokes distorted outwards, curling into three dimensions and weaving themselves into the shape of a woman.

She dropped out of the mural, landing silently on her pale, bare feet.

When she fully materialized, she trudged towards the chain-link fence between the mural and the wash, curled her dirt-caped fingers around the wires, and began to climb.

I swerved into my driveway and rushed to the door, nearly forgetting to put the car in park.

Nugget was still barking in the backyard, which was probably where the weeping woman would be heading right now, meaning she was ignoring me.

I fumbled with my keys, finally finding the right one and shoving it in the lock.

I just had to get Nugget and Beefsteak inside, put a shield over the dog door, and my kids would be fine.

She turned her head.