The bedroom is suffocating with stillness. Bob's fingers hover over the three parallel gashes in the drywall—ragged, deep enough to see the lath beneath. He didn't hear anything last night. Didn't feel the house shift. But the marks are here now, raw wood splintered outward like something clawed its way through from the inside. Petunia stands rigid beside him, her massive chest rumbling with a growl so low it's almost below hearing. Her hackles rise in a dark wave along her spine. She doesn't look at the marks. She stares at the corner where they lead—where the wall meets the closet door, slightly ajar. "What is it, girl?" Bob whispers. His voice sounds small in the room. Petunia doesn't answer. She never does with words. But her whole body leans forward, weight on her front paws, tail still. The growl deepens. Bob reaches for the closet door handle. His fingers brush the cold metal. Petunia's growl cuts off into a sharp bark—a warning. He jerks his hand back. Inside the closet, something shifts. Not loud. Just a dry scrape, like scales on cardboard. Bob's heart hammers so hard he feels it in his throat. Petunia positions herself between him and the door, her bulk a living wall. "Okay," he breathes. "Okay. Not yet." He backs away, never taking his eyes off the dark crack of the closet. Petunia stays frozen, her growl returning, a constant vibration against the floorboards. The bedroom light flickers once—then holds steady. Bob fumbles for his phone. The code from the platform glows on the screen. DZRND6SQ. He doesn't know what it unlocks. But something tells him he's going to need it. Outside, the wind picks up, rattling the windowpane. Bob looks at the claw marks again. They seem longer now. Closer to the bed. Petunia whines. Low. Urgent. And from inside the closet, the scraping starts again.