This is a story in an anthology of creepy short stories I’m collecting about something fox-like . If you like this one and haven’t read the others, here’s the whole eerie den.
Sunset on the farm has always been one of my favorite times — the reds and pinks and golds falling over the fields and shining off the barn roof. It all felt like home and safety, even if it wasn’t anymore.
I used to watch the light stretch long shadows across the grass and pretend they were reaching for something — something good, something gone, maybe both. But tonight, one of those shadows moved when it shouldn’t have.
I was rocking gently on the porch swing when I noticed the corn stalks wavering, then a faint shadow appeared, there for only a moment before vanishing back into the field. My first thought was to get Dad — he’d always been quick to grab his rifle when the vermin were about — but Dad was gone.
It was just me now.
I rocked slowly, the creak of the swing protesting louder than I liked. The sun had dipped just enough to make everything hazy at the edges, that strange moment when things aren’t quite day or night. I squinted toward the corn, expecting nothing — and hoping for even less — but the shadow came back. Closer this time. Lower. And wrong.
It was low to the ground — maybe a fox or a raccoon, maybe even a skunk — but almost too low to the ground. Could it be a mole? Whatever it was, it looked like it was slinking toward the henhouse.
I grabbed the flashlight from the hook by the door, thumbing it on as I stepped off the porch. The beam cut across the field in slices, catching dust and drifting pollen, but not the thing itself. I told myself it was probably nothing, but I still found myself walking faster than I meant to — half to reach the henhouse, half just to silence that childhood part of me that still believed in monsters.
And I was being ridiculous, I knew that. This was my first night alone on the farm since Dad had passed, and I knew I was just reacting to that sense of isolation and grief. I’d missed him all day, but never more than right now.
Grief does funny things to your senses. It sharpens some, dulls others, makes shadows seem deeper than they are. I told myself that as I rounded the corner of the barn, light sweeping in wide arcs. But then the beam caught something at the base of the fence — something white. Small. Still.
No shadow this time. Not even moving.
Just a fox. Lying there. Watching me.
It was so utterly still as it gazed at me that for a moment I thought it was dead. Then it blinked — but only one eye, almost like it winked at me. Then it turned and darted toward the coop so quickly I barely saw it move.
My breath caught, half a gasp, half a curse. I broke into a run, my boots thudding against the dry dirt path as I followed the blur of white fur. The flashlight beam bobbed wildly, useless now except to make my own shadow lurch and twist like something chasing me from behind. I reached the coop just as the hens began to scream.
If you’ve never heard a chicken scream, be glad. The high-pitched shrieking repeated again and again before the rooster began to crow his danger cry.
“Goddamnitall!” I cursed as I fumbled with the gate latch, finally forcing it open and pushing my way inside, not even bothering to shut the gate behind me. I might regret that later, but saving the chickens was more important.
Feathers flew like snow in a storm, white and brown and frantic, and the air reeked of panic — sour, sharp, and alive. I swung the flashlight wildly, expecting to see blood, claws, something feral mid-attack.
But there was nothing. No fox. No blood. Just chickens losing their minds, flapping and scrambling in circles, some throwing themselves against the walls.
Except for one.
One hen sat perfectly still in the corner, eyes wide and fixed — not on me, but behind me.
It took me a moment to wonder why that one was so calm before I turned to look over my shoulder, and swore out another oath. The small white fox was perched on the shelf where some hens kept their nests. It stood silently, just watching me, the reflection of my flashlight making its eyes seem to glow a bright yellow in the darkened coop.
I froze. Not because I was scared — not yet — but because something about the way it looked at me was too... deliberate. Like it had been waiting for this. For me. It didn’t seem afraid, didn’t seem hungry. Hell, it didn’t even blink.
It tilted its head, and for a split second, I had the strangest sense that it wasn’t looking at me so much as through me. Like it saw something on the other side.
And then it said — clear as a bell, without moving its mouth, “You shouldn’t have left the gate open.”
Its voice was bizarrely cultured. Like it should have a British accent, although it didn’t. I just stared, shocked into silence and blinking wildly.
I must’ve imagined that, right?
I looked around quickly to see who might be standing nearby, but there was no one.
“No one else is coming,” it said, again without moving its lips. The hens had gone eerily quiet now — every last one frozen, watching, heads cocked toward the fox like they understood him better than I did.
I stepped back instinctively, bumping into the low edge of the nesting boxes. “What are you?” I whispered, and immediately hated how small I sounded.
The fox didn’t answer. It only blinked — once, slowly — then jumped from the shelf with an elegance that didn’t belong in something that small.
And when its paws hit the floor, they didn’t make a sound.
Even worse, the hay scattered on the floor where it landed didn’t move at all.
I pulled the rifle up in front of me and aimed it at the fox, feeling my heart thud wildly in my chest, but so grateful that my hands seemed steady.
“What are you?” I asked again, trying to sound a little tougher this time, more in control, less afraid. I think I failed, because if anything, the fox just looked... amused.
It padded toward me, slow and precise, the way a dream might walk. Or a nightmare.
“You already know,” it said, and this time the voice was closer, like it was right beside my ear even though I could still see the animal ahead of me.
“I don’t,” I snapped, though my voice cracked on the last syllable. “I don’t know anything.”
The fox tilted its head again, eyes glowing brighter now, almost too bright to look at directly. “Then why are you the only one who heard me?”
My eyes darted, hunting for meaning. I didn’t know how to respond to that — wasn’t even sure I understood the question. That’s when I realized that it was now too close for me to easily shoot it with the rifle. My throat tightened, panic pressing up from underneath.
I tried changing questions. I didn’t know what it was, other than a fox, but maybe a different question would get a more useful answer.
“What do you want?”
The fox stared calmly at me for what seemed like forever, but must’ve been only a few moments, before answering solemnly, “I came to pay my respects.”
That wasn’t the answer I expected — not even close — though I’m not sure what I did expect. My grip on the rifle loosened just a little as confusion tangled with fear.
“Respects?” I echoed, my voice half-laugh, half-choke. “To who?”
The fox sat down, tail curling neatly around its paws. Its gaze dropped — not at me this time, but past me, to the coop door still hanging open, and then to the house just barely visible in the distance.
“To whom,” it corrected me reprovingly. Then continued, “To the man who used to keep the gate closed,” it said softly. “He knew the rules. You... broke them.”
Panic struck me then. I’d left the gate open. Dad would’ve tanned my backside for that. I did know better.
My eyes shot toward the door of the coop, wondering if it would let me go shut the gate now.
I stammered out my excuse, “I was... I was worried you were going to eat the chickens.” I paused, then sidled one foot toward the door, never taking my eyes from the fox. “I’ll go shut it now.”
Its head cocked to one side, and its tongue lolled out as it watched me. “It’s too late for that, dear. It’s already gotten in,” it said quietly, a note of what sounded like sadness in its voice.
A chill swept through me, harsher than any autumn breeze had a right to be. “It?” I asked, throat tightening around the word like it didn’t want to be said aloud.
The fox didn’t answer. Instead, it stood — slowly, almost reluctantly — and padded to the coop door. It didn’t look at me again as it spoke.
“You should run. Back to the house with you.”
As it approached the door, I thought I heard one final whisper trail over its shoulder, “If you can make it.”
Then it stepped outside, vanished into the corn without a rustle or whisper, like it had never been there at all.
Behind me, one of the hens let out a single, strangled squawk.
And in the far corner of the coop, something dark… breathed.
—
‼️ If the fox interests you, you can check out the other stories in the fox anthology .
🦊 If one of my foxes bit your heart on the way out, feed the beast with a cup of existential dread.
No Jenifer. I need answers. What is the fox? What is the dark thing? Are they together? Are they enemies? I'm three stories in and invested. I need answers. 😭
I think it hit me reading this. Foxes are just too cute to creep me out. But this other thing. The thing that the fox is warning about, that has my attention. Great work.