I walk past this house every morning on my way to work. At first, the big curly-haired dog—Herbie, according to the sign—would bark like I was some kind of intruder. Every. Single. Time.
Then, one day, I noticed the sign.
A little plastic bag of treats was taped below it. I hesitated, then grabbed one and held it out.
Herbie stopped barking instantly. He sniffed, tilted his head, then gently took the treat from my hand. His tail gave the smallest wag.
The next day, I did it again. And again. After a week, Herbie started waiting at the gate. Not barking. Just watching.
This morning, when I reached into the bag, I noticed something different—there was a small folded note tucked in with the treats. It wasn’t there yesterday.
I opened it, expecting a thank-you from the owner.
But the words inside made my breath catch.
“He’s not just waiting for treats. He’s waiting for something else.”
At first, I thought it might be some sort of prank or mistake. But as I read those words again, they felt too deliberate, too intentional. The handwriting was neat but hurried, like someone had scribbled it in a moment of urgency. I glanced around, half-expecting the owner to appear and explain, but the street was quiet save for the distant hum of traffic.
Herbie sat by the gate, his big brown eyes fixed on me, as if he knew I’d found the note. For the first time since I’d started this routine, he didn’t move toward me when I offered the treat. Instead, he stayed seated, his ears perked up slightly, almost like he was listening for something—or waiting.
I decided to investigate further. Later that evening, after work, I took a detour back to Herbie’s house. This time, no one was home—or so I thought. The front door was closed, and the lights were off, but the gate leading to the backyard was slightly ajar. I called out softly, “Hello? Is anyone here?” There was no response.
Herbie padded over quietly, his tail wagging tentatively. He nudged my leg with his nose, then turned and trotted toward the gate. When he looked back at me, it was clear he wanted me to follow him. I hesitated for a moment, unsure if this was crossing some invisible boundary, but curiosity got the better of me. I stepped through the gate.
The backyard was tidy, with flower beds lining the edges and a small wooden bench nestled beneath an old oak tree. On the bench lay another note, this one crumpled and worn, as if it had been handled many times. I picked it up carefully and unfolded it.
The message was short but chilling: “Help me find her.”
My heart skipped a beat. Who was “her”? Was this about the owner? Had something happened to them? Or was this tied to someone else entirely? Before I could process what I was reading, Herbie let out a soft whine and trotted toward a shed tucked away in the corner of the yard. He scratched at the door insistently, looking back at me with pleading eyes.
