The wood splintered under his fingertip. Bob traced the groove—three parallel lines, deep enough to catch his nail. They started at about waist height and angled down, as if something had braced itself against the wall and pushed. Petunia hadn't stopped growling. The sound came from somewhere deep in her chest, a vibration Bob felt through the floorboards more than he heard it. Her tail was rigid, her hackles raised in a dark ridge along her spine. "I know," Bob whispered. "I feel it too." He'd checked the room before bed. The walls were smooth. The only marks were the ones he'd made with his pocket knife years ago, carving his initials into the windowsill. These were new. And they were inside. Not outside, where an animal might have scratched its way in. Inside, where nothing should have been able to reach. Petunia took a step forward, her massive body blocking the doorway. She sniffed the lowest mark, then sneezed, backing away as if the wood itself had bitten her. Bob knelt beside her. His hand found the warm curve of her neck, her fur coarse and familiar under his palm. "What did you see?" he asked. "Before I woke up. What was in here?" She pressed her head against his chest. Her growl faded to a whimper. He looked at the marks again. Three lines. Not random. Purposeful. Deliberate. Like a signal. Or a warning. From somewhere in the house, a floorboard creaked. Petunia's head snapped up, ears swiveling toward the hallway. The growl returned, lower now, more dangerous. Bob rose slowly, keeping his hand on her. The device was still in his pocket, warm against his thigh. He hadn't told Johnny about the dreams yet. Maybe he should have. "Stay close," he said. Petunia's eyes never left the dark hallway. Her tail wagged once, twice—a soldier's acknowledgment. Then she stepped in front of him, her body a wall of muscle and loyalty, and together they moved toward the sound. The claw marks gleamed wetly in the dim light, as if something had just finished carving them. And somewhere in the walls, something breathed.