At the far edge of Maplewood stood an old barn that leaned like it was tired of standing. The paint had long since faded to gray, and the roof drooped under years of rain and sun. Locals whispered about strange noises coming from inside, but no one dared push open the cracked wooden doors.
One quiet afternoon, the usual creaks and sighs of the wind changed. A faint sound drifted through the slats, not the moan of old timber but a weak, trembling whimper. It was the kind of sound that made the air feel heavy. Even the crows perched on the fence stopped calling.
Emma, who often jogged past the barn with her dog, froze. The tall grass shifted, though the air was still. Her dog stiffened, ears pointed toward the barn door. Emma had heard plenty of stories about this place, about ghosts, animals, and lost things, but this did not sound like any of them. Something alive was in there.