Bob's flashlight beam is unsteady. It trembles across the wall, catching the raw wood where the plaster has been ripped away. Three parallel gashes, each as deep as his pinky finger, start high near the ceiling and arc downward, stopping just above his headboard. He doesn't remember making those. He didn't hear anything last night. He slept through it all — the scratching, the tearing, whatever did this. Behind him, Petunia's growl is a low, continuous vibration, like a distant engine. She stands rigid, her massive black body planted in the middle of the floor, her eyes fixed on the far corner of the room — the one behind the door, where the shadows pool thickest. "What is it, girl?" Bob whispers. She doesn't look at him. Her tail is still. Her ears are pinned flat against her skull. Bob takes a step toward the corner. The floorboard creaks. Petunia's growl pitches higher — a warning. He stops. The corner is empty. Just the old wooden floor, a stray sock, the edge of his dresser. Nothing there. But the air feels wrong. Thicker. Colder. Like standing at the mouth of a cave you can't see. Bob glances back at the claw marks. They're still fresh. The wood is pale, untouched by dust. He reaches out, almost touches them. Petunia barks — sharp, explosive, one single sound that makes him jump. He spins. The corner is still empty. But now the closet door, which he swears he left open, is closed. And from inside, something scratches back.