His bedroom is quiet. The kind of quiet that makes you hear your own heartbeat. Bob stands at the wall. The claw marks are deep—three parallel lines, runneled into the drywall, down to the stud. He didn't put them there. They weren't there last night. He knows this because he traced the whorls in the wood grain before bed, the way he always does when sleep won't come. Now those whorls are severed. The paint curls at the edges. Fresh. Petunia is motionless behind him. He doesn't need to turn around to know her posture—the tight stillness that means she's watching something he can't see. Her growl starts low, a vibration through the floorboards. "What is it?" Bob whispers. She doesn't answer. She never does. But she takes a step forward, her big body pressing past his leg, and plants herself between him and the corner. The one where the shadows seem thicker than they should be. Bob's fingers leave the claw marks and drift to the back pocket of his jeans. The device is still warm. He pulls it out. The symbols on its surface flicker once—a dull green pulse, like a heartbeat. Petunia's growl deepens. And in the corner, something breathes.