The water is black glass. Bob stands at the edge of the pond, his sneakers sinking into mud that smells of iron and wet earth. His breath fogs in the cold midnight air. The guitar floats ten feet out, turning slowly in a circle, its strings glowing a steady green that pulses like a heartbeat under the surface. Petunia's growl is low and constant, a sound Bob feels through his legs more than hears. Her hackles rise, and she braces her massive paws, her whole body a taut spring. She isn't growling at the guitar. She's growling at what's beneath it. Bob squints. The glow of the strings casts ripples of light across the water, and in the spaces between, he sees something dark shift. A shape. Bigger than a fish. Bigger than a log. A slow roll of shadow just below the surface. "Petunia," he whispers. She doesn't look at him. Her eyes are locked on the water. The guitar turns again. Bob remembers Johnny showing it off last week at the diner — how he tuned it with a silver key, how the wood hummed even when unplayed. Now it's here, in the pond, alone. Something brushes against the bottom of the guitar. The strings flare bright, then dim. Bob's hand goes to Petunia's neck, feeling the vibration of her growl through her fur. "Come on," he says, pulling her back. She resists for a second, then follows, but her head stays turned, her ears flat, her eyes on the water until they're swallowed by the dark. Bob's heart pounds. He needs to find Johnny. He needs to tell him what he saw. But as he turns toward the road, he hears it — a single low note, rising from the pond, echoing through the empty orchard. The guitar is playing itself. And in his pocket, his phone buzzes. A text from an unknown number: "Don't look back."