I adopted Hilda two years ago. Gorgeous black fluffball, looks like a wolf but with the soul of a golden retriever. Sweet, loyal, always by my side. But something changed last week when I took her hiking deep in the woods behind my cabin.

It started when she stopped moving mid-trail—ears perked, eyes locked on something in the trees. No growl, no bark. Just… stillness. Like she wasn’t breathing. I called her name, and she turned her head, slowly, almost too slowly for a dog. Her eyes looked different. Not scared. Not curious. Just… aware. Aware of me.

That night, I heard scratching outside the cabin. Figured it was a raccoon, maybe a coyote. But when I opened the door, Hilda was sitting there. Perfectly clean. No mud, no leaves, no sign she’d even moved. Her mouth was open in that weird way dogs "smile"—but I swear it was too wide.

Since then, things have escalated.

She doesn't eat. Her food bowl is untouched, yet she's not losing weight. At night, I wake up to see her standing in the corner of my room, not sleeping, just watching. And I could swear she whispers when the lights are off.

Yesterday, I left her home while I went to town. When I came back, there were muddy pawprints on the ceiling. Not the floor. The ceiling.

I tried recording her last night. The footage is corrupted. Not like a glitch—like it’s scratched from the inside.

Hilda still follows me around like she always has. Tail wagging, tongue out. But sometimes, when I catch her reflection in the window, I don’t see a dog.

I see something wearing a dog.