The room hums. Not a sound, but a pressure—the way the air feels before thunder splits the sky. Bob traces the edge of the nearest claw mark with his pinky finger. It's warm. Slick, like fresh sap. Three parallel grooves, each one deeper than his thumbnail, starting two feet above the floorboard and angling upward toward the ceiling. They glow. Faint, greenish-yellow, like the underside of a firefly. Petunia stands rigid beside him, her massive head level with his shoulder. Her growl isn't loud—it's a low, continuous rumble, the kind that vibrates through the floor and up into his knees. She's staring at the corner. Not the wall with the marks. The corner. Where the glow is brightest. Bob follows her gaze. The wallpaper is old, pale cream with faded roses. In the corner, where the two walls meet the ceiling, the roses seem to pulse—darkening and brightening in rhythm with the glow on the wall. "It's not coming from the wall," Bob whispers. "It's coming from inside." Petunia's growl deepens. Her paw lifts, hovers, then slams down. A single sharp thud. Something in the corner shifts. Bob doesn't breathe. He watches the roses curl inward, like fingers closing into a fist. And then the glow goes out. The room plunges into darkness. Petunia's growl stops. For three heartbeats, nothing. Then Bob's phone buzzes in his pocket. A text from Johnny: "You see it too?" He types back: "See what?" Johnny replies instantly: "The marks. My wall too." Bob looks at Petunia. Her eyes catch the streetlight filtering through the blinds. She's still watching the corner. The roses are still again. But the air hasn't stopped humming.