If I ever become a serial killer, I’m blaming the damn fox.

  I step into the shed and stare at the absolute carnage in front of me. Sunlight streams through the cracks in the shed door, casting harsh lines over the chaos inside. Dirt smears across the floor like a poorly done art project. Bags of gardening soil lie ripped open, their contents spilling everywhere like someone started burying a body but thought better of it halfway through. And my rake! My favorite rake, splintered and chewed beyond recognition, lies pathetically in two pieces. The wooden handle gnawed like a dog toy. Plastic containers are overturned, their labels peeling under streaks of something damp. The musky, sharp scent of an animal lingers in the air, like a personal insult.

  "You've got to be kidding me," I mutter, dropping my bag onto the hard concrete floor with a thud. My shoulders slump as I stare at my ruined workspace. My eyes settle on the rake, and a pang of genuine grief twists my gut. It was my favorite rake. It had good heft, and perfect balance, and now it looks like it lost a fight with a chainsaw. Or, more accurately, a feral demon disguised as a woodland creature.

  I don’t move. I just stand there, staring at the mess, rage simmering just below my skin. This isn’t the first time. This isn’t even the tenth. Every few nights, the same thing happens. Something gets in here. Something wrecks the place. Something tears through my stuff like it has a personal vendetta against me.

  And I know exactly what that something is.

  A fox.

  A white fox, to be specific. I’ve never caught it in the act, yet. I’ve set up cameras, but I’ve never been able to film a single second of its reign of destruction. All I have is circumstantial evidence.

  I’ve seen the paw prints in the dirt. A tuft of plush fur caught on nails in the wood. There is always a flicker of white fur vanishing into the trees whenever I get close.

  This fox is single-handedly dismantling my sanity, one rake handle at a time.

  "This is ridiculous," I growl, kicking a plastic bucket. It crashes into the far wall with an echoing bang, scattering tools even further. I try to breathe, but it just makes the smell stronger. Great. Today’s another day of playing janitor to a feral little demon.

  My camera is sitting on the workbench. I film everything for my channel. This? This is perfect content. I grab the camera, flip it on, and force a grin.

  “Welcome back, Cub Club! Fun update—The Shed has once again been violently attacked by an actual, living, breathing menace to society.”

  The camera pans over the wreckage, the snapped rake, the absolute disaster that used to be my workspace.

  “I saw a lot of comments mentioning to “lock the door!” Well, no duh, I have been locking the door each night. I still can’t figure out how it’s getting in.” Truthfully, I have. I’ve set cameras, locked doors, sealed every hole. And still, every morning, I find this disaster waiting for me. I've seen glimpses of the creature—a flash of white fur slipping through the underbrush, eyes glinting mischievously. But I've never captured it on film. Not once. If I had only set up my camera last night, I’d have proof. I could have finally posted a video showing everyone what I’m dealing with instead of just ranting into the void like some lunatic.

  My hands tremble as I point the lens back at me. “If anyone knows how to get rid of a fox without, like, violating a hundred wildlife protection laws, let me know in the comments. Because at this point? I am one more destroyed tool away from losing my entire mind.” I point the lens back at the wreckage. “Now, I know what you’re thinking—Caleb, you’re being dramatic. It’s just a fox. Just a cute little woodland creature, living its best life. Well, tell that to my shed, because this? This is not the work of an innocent animal. This fox is Houdini. It defies logic. If it wasn't driving me insane, I'd probably be impressed.”

  The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

  The shed door creaks open again. Could it be the fox ready to ambush? I spin around sharply, nearly letting the camera slip through my fingers.

  "Relax, it's just me," Luca says, holding up his hands in mock surrender. "Chill, Caleb. You look like you’ve been caught committing a murder."

  I cut the recording, toss the camera back onto the workbench, and inhale through my nose. The sharp scent of wood, damp dirt, and something musky thick in the air.

  Luca stands in the doorway, tall and lanky with tousled dark hair and a half-smile always on his face, as if life were just one big joke he hasn't quite shared yet. He’s had the same smug grin since he became fluent in sarcasm in third grade. He convinced me that elves were stealing my homework. A lie I believed for an embarrassingly long time. But still, he’s been my best friend since kindergarten. The ever laid-back counterbalance to my perpetual frustration. He's dressed in jeans and a faded band t-shirt, looking effortlessly cool even at nine in the morning.

  "Oh, it's you," I say, exhaling slowly, trying to calm the thundering in my chest. "Sorry. Thought it was the fox coming back to taunt me."

  He steps inside, eyes surveying the chaos. "Geez, man. Again?"

  "Third time this week. Although, this seems to break the record for the most damage it’s ever done so far.”

  "You've got yourself a nemesis."

  "Don't remind me."

  Luca leans against the workbench, arms folded, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Maybe it's trying to tell you something. Maybe it's got a crush on you."

  I glare at him. "Hilarious."

  "Or," Luca continues dramatically, "it's secretly your guardian spirit trying to save you from something terrible, like your tragic obsession with gardening."

  "Thanks, Luca. Your support means the world," I say dryly, watching his face grow a smirk the size of his ego.

  He picks up my camera, turns it to face himself, and flips a peace sign to the lens. "Hi, Caleb’s Crew. Caleb's lost it. Send help,” he jokes at the black screen.

  I roll my eyes, grabbing the camera from his greasy hands and placing it back onto the workbench. I’m done playing the victim. This fox has gotten away with this for too long. "Seriously, this has to end. I'm going to catch this thing tonight. No matter what it takes."

  Luca pushes himself upright. "Need a hunting partner?"

  "You're volunteering to spend your Friday night sitting in the bushes with me?"

  "Of course. Wouldn’t want to miss out."

  Despite my annoyance, I can't help but smile. "Fine. But I expect actual help, not just commentate."

  "No promises," Luca replies, stepping forward to inspect the snapped rake handle. "Wow, it really went to town, huh?"

  "Yeah. It's personal now," I say darkly, looking back at the destruction. "Tonight, this ends.” I mean it.

  I scan the mess again, waiting for some kind of divine intervention. Nothing. Not even a snarky huff from Luca. Just silence. The kind that makes you feel stupid for talking out loud.

  I need to clean this up. I need to do something other than stand here and get angrier. But all I can think about is the fox. Why? Why my shed? Why not someone else’s? Why the obsession with destroying my things. I swallow down the frustration, feeling it anchor itself in the pit of my stomach.

  We spend the next hour cleaning and salvaging what we can. Luca hums tunelessly, unfazed, while I silently fume, plotting increasingly elaborate revenge scenarios involving humane traps. Or nets. Definitely nets.

  "Hey," Luca says after a long silence, nudging me with his elbow. "You really think it's a fox? Maybe you're dealing with something worse. Like an angry neighbor. Or ghosts."

  "If only it was ghosts. Ghosts don’t chew rakes."

  "True," he concedes. "But it'd make a better story. The internet loves ghost hunts."

  "I'll settle for capturing the fox first."

  He laughs. “I think it's a ghost. So, uh, what are you going to do when you catch it? You wouldn’t really kill it, would you?” His voice creaks a bit, nervously anticipating my answer.

  For Luca to actually worry that I might harm the rascal thing hits harder than I expect. He’s the one who watched me sob when a six grader poured salt on a dead slug. I’d carried it home in a shoebox lined with leaves, determined to give it a proper funeral. Luca helped dig the tiny grave. That memory alone should've reassured him I’m harmless, yet here we are. His uncertainty makes my anger shift suddenly to guilt.