Bob's fingers trace the gouges in the drywall. Three parallel lines, deep enough to catch his thumbnail. They weren't there this morning. He knows this because he pressed his palm flat against this exact spot before breakfast, feeling the cool wall, waiting for Petunia to finish her breakfast. The wood beneath is splintered. The paint curls at the edges like dried skin. Behind him, Petunia stands rigid in the far corner of the room. Her massive black body is low to the ground, tail tucked, ears pressed flat against her skull. A low, continuous growl vibrates from her chest—not loud, but constant. A sound like a truck idling in a deep garage. Bob doesn't call her name. He's learned that when she makes this sound, she doesn't hear him. The corner she's staring at is empty. Just the old oak dresser with the stuck drawer. His reflection in the mirror above it shows a boy with wide eyes, holding his breath. He looks back at the claw marks. Three lines. Evenly spaced. The paint is torn from the inside out—something scraped from within the wall, not from the room. Bob kneels and presses his ear to the splintered wood. The wall is cold. But inside, behind the plaster and lath, he hears something. A faint, rhythmic scratching. Like something breathing on the other side. Petunia's growl deepens. Her paws shift on the floorboards. Bob pulls back. The scratching stops. For a long moment, neither of them moves. The room holds its breath. Then a single, deliberate tap sounds from inside the wall, right where Bob's ear was pressed. Petunia whines—a high, thin sound that cuts through the dark. Bob backs away slowly, never taking his eyes off the wall. He reaches for the door without looking. His fingers find the knob. The tap comes again. Harder. Three times. Bob opens the door. Petunia bolts past him into the hallway, nails skittering on the wood. He follows, slamming the door behind him. From inside the room, through the closed door, he hears it one more time. A slow, deliberate scratch—like someone drawing a line from inside. Then silence. Bob looks down at Petunia. She's already staring back at the door, her body trembling, her eyes fixed on the crack beneath it where a sliver of darkness waits. She doesn't blink. And somewhere in the house, a clock begins to tick.