Robbers? Preparing? Scoping out what they could steal? But nothing was taken, they hadn’t even tried to get inside. The gate was closed with a simple latch, the lock was intact and unharmed. The tracks only led from the gate into the yard and back, which meant the person had somehow opened it, walked in calmly, circled the house, then just as calmly closed the gate and left unhurriedly.
The kettle on the stove let out a piercing whistle, and Elena jumped at the sudden, sharp sound. She turned off the gas with a trembling hand but didn’t even think about making tea. She had to do something urgently, make a decision. Call the police? But what exactly would she say? That some unknown person had walked around her yard at night, but hadn’t stolen, broken, or smashed anything at all?
She remembered the local police officer, Grigory Petrovich Larin. She had known him for many years, ever since he came to work in this district as a very young man. He was over 50 now, but he still worked diligently and was known as a conscientious, responsive person one could turn to. She could and should definitely go to him.
Elena quickly went up to the bedroom, dressed hastily, pulling on whatever came to hand: warm lounge pants, a thick woolen sweater, and she replaced her house slippers with warm winter boots. She took out her mobile phone, found the officer’s number in her old contacts. Her fingers were still trembling unpleasantly as she dialed.
“Grigory Petrovich? This is Elena Kravchuk, from 17 Sadovaya Street. I’m sorry to call so early, but I have a… a very strange situation here.”
“Good morning, Elena Alexeevna,” came the familiar, calm, slightly hoarse voice of the police officer. “What happened?”
“Someone came to my house last night. They walked around the yard, left footprints in the snow. I was home alone, my husband is away on a long trip, and I’m very… I was very scared.”
“I see. Is anything missing? Was the door forced? Are the windows intact?”
“No, everything seems to be intact and in its place. But the tracks… they lead right up to the windows on all sides, as if someone was deliberately peeking inside or looking for something specific.”
Grigory Petrovich was thoughtfully silent on the other end of the line for a few seconds.
“Alright, I’ll be there shortly, 20-30 minutes at most. In the meantime, don’t leave the house, and whatever you do, don’t step on the tracks. And check all your windows and doors carefully, make sure everything is securely locked.”
“Thank you so much,” Elena exhaled with relief. “I’ll be waiting for you.”
She put the phone down on the table and immediately began to check the house. She looked around with a new, wary attention. The house now felt alien, hostile, unsafe. Every familiar creak of the floorboards, every rustle outside the window made her jump nervously and look around. Elena methodically went through all the rooms on the first floor, carefully checking the windows: all were tightly closed with latches, with no signs of an attempted break-in. The front door was locked with two turns of the key and the chain, exactly as she had left it before going to bed. Everything seemed to be in perfect order. But for some reason, this wasn’t reassuring at all; on the contrary, it made her even more anxious.
Again, as if drawn by a magnet, she went to the kitchen window, staring at the tracks once more. Now, in the brighter morning light, they were even clearer, even more frightening. Very large, very deep, the distance between the steps quite wide; definitely a man, tall, heavy, with a large build. He had walked slowly, with complete confidence, calmly. He knew exactly what he was doing and why he had come.
Twenty minutes dragged on torturously, unbearably long, like hours. Elena sat in the kitchen, clutching a cup of completely cold tea in her trembling hands, unable to tear her tense gaze from the window. What if this unknown person came back right now? What if he was watching from somewhere nearby, waiting for the right moment for her to go out or get distracted?
Finally, the bright light of car headlights hit the window. Elena jumped up from her chair and looked out: it was the familiar official car of the police officer. Grigory Petrovich got out of the car, a tall, heavyset man in his early 50s, in a warm uniform jacket and a fur ushanka hat. Elena practically ran to the door, flinging it open before he even rang the bell.
“Grigory Petrovich, thank you so much for coming so quickly,” she said, stepping aside to let him in.
“Don’t mention it, Elena Alexeevna, it’s my job,” he said, sedately shaking the snow from his heavy boots and following her into the kitchen. His experienced gaze immediately fell on the window, on the view of the yard. “Show me where exactly the tracks are.”
They went out together onto the cold porch. The frosty, biting air painfully stung her flushed face and lungs. Grigory Petrovich slowly, deliberately descended the creaking wooden steps, carefully examining the snow-covered yard. He walked right up to the tracks, cautiously crouched down, and studied each print for a long time.
“Size 44, maybe even 45 boots,” he muttered thoughtfully to himself, clearly estimating. “Deeply treaded sole, looks like work boots or combat boots. They come from the gate…”
He slowly traced the entire chain of tracks with his attentive gaze from beginning to end.
“…Straight to the living room windows, then methodically along the entire wall of the house to the back. Then back the same way to the gate. Very strange.”
“Who could it have been?” Elena wrapped her arms tightly around herself, huddling in the old jacket she had hastily thrown over her shoulders, shivering not just from the cold…
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