The scratching continued, but only for a moment before it halted, and the silence that followed was deafening.
Jane nearly released the breath she was holding, too afraid to let it go, before a low moan droned from the other side of the door. It was a groan with a dreadful gurgle she felt bubble in the back of her own throat, a sound that seemingly couldn’t decide between being a human wail or a beast’s growl. Whatever it was, Jane didn’t move, only clutching a fistful of sheets against her chin.
The storm continued to seethe just beyond her window, and a flash of lighting proved that she was alone in the room. But that didn’t tell her who—what—was scratching against the door. She wasn’t sure if she even wanted to know what was on the other side; bliss lay in not knowing.
Another moan pressed against the wood, another agonizingly long scrape of nails dragged across the door until Jane felt those unseen claws raking down the plains of her ribs, pleading with her to be let inside.
Who are you?Her lips couldn’t muster the courage to call out to the intruder and she instead choked on the ice-cold fear lodged firmly at the back of her tongue.
“Mrs. Foster?” she somehow mustered. “Mrs. Foster, is that you? Ruben?”
Nothing. Only more scratching.
Slowly, Jane rose out of bed. Had an animal gotten into the house? Perhaps some vagabond in need of shelter from the storm? Curiosity was screaming in the back of her mind, demanding to know what was on the other side, and why they had the audacity to disturb her slumber.
She lit the oil lamp, bathing the room in a dim yellow light that turned the wallpaper a murky shade of green. The scratching continued as she neared the door. To temper her rising anxiety, shetried to picture some great, but harmless, dog on the other side, perhaps a lost Newfoundland or Great Dane, just looking for a midnight snack after it accidentally wandered from home and into another that wasn’t its own. Hot, damp air rushed from the crack at the bottom of the door, as if a curious snout snuffled along it.
Ms. Hudson’s warnings echoed within the depths of her skull, then.
Ignore things that speak from the darkness—don’t leave your bedroom until you are certain it is sunlight spilling across your sheets.
The warnings tamed her temptation and she kept her eager hand closed into a tight fist against her chest. What if it wasn’t a lost dog?
She stared at the door and the shadow that shuffled along its bottom. It was a shadow that swayed, only telling Jane that whatever was on the other side was real, or real enough to cast a shadow.
But there was one other thing that kept her from opening the door. The knob was already turning itself. Her heart lurched in her throat.
She anticipated the door to open as it jerked within its frame, but it didn’t give way. Mrs. Foster’s lock held firm, but Jane was unsure if a lock could keep whatever was on the other side at bay, especially as the door’s shaking grew in its intensity. The moaning devolved into vicious snarls, the scratching into a clawing violence.
Jane rushed back to the sanctuary of the rickety bed that squealed in protest beneath her sudden weight. On the nightstand, she rifled through her bag until her hand closed over something cold and thin, and she pulled out the silver hairpin. She took the metal sheath, twisted it, and withdrew the hidden knife. It was a gift her grandmother had given to all the Sterling daughtersafter their first monthly bleedings, a tool to defend, a piece of beauty that could be honed into a weapon, and Jane wore it in her hair everywhere she went. But as she grew older, yet to face an opponent that’d require such a weapon, it had turned into a conversational piece, made even more so after she cut her hair on her twentieth birthday.
But now, as she hid beneath the covers with the knife clutched tight against her chest, she failed to find security in its presence as she listened to the intruder pounding at the bedroom door. If she held doubts over its ability to fend off the undead, what good would it do against the brute-ish entity in the hallway?
She waited and waited, for something to burst through and descend upon her to tear her apart and rob her of innocence in one fell swoop. She pressed her eyes and held her breath as those claws snagged on wood—and waited.
And then all fell silent, abrupt as death. The quiet rang in her ears.
Jane strained to listen for any signs of the intruder past the hammering of her pulse, but there was nothing. No scratching or groaning, as if whatever was on the other side simply vanished.
Knife pressed against her cheek, Jane choked every breath and whimper that threatened to squirm up her throat. But she kept silent, and listened, and waited.
And waited.
CHAPTER
Six
When Jane’s eyes next opened, gray light and the smell of fresh coffee seeped through the sheets.
Realizing that someone had been in her room, she bolted upright and tore aside the covers. Her nightdress was unmarked, bearing no stains of tears or blood, and her skin was free of any damning blemishes, but she couldn’t shake herself free of the sensation of claws against her bones, and her skin cradled between pointed teeth. She must’ve dreamt of wolves and beasts.
She sighed and rubbed her face in the palm of her hand, over the raw and pink impression the pin-knife left in her cheek, then ran her fingers through her hair. Perhaps it had all been a nightmare.
She took the coffee, smelled it, and wrinkled her nose at itsstrong odor and the lack of cream. It was bitter in her mouth when she took a sip and she tried her best to not gag. She needed this, she scolded herself as she bit into a piece of buttered bread. She needed this to distance herself from last night’s lingering dread.
Perhaps it had all been a nightmare,she thought—no,hoped—once more. But as she looked toward the bedroom door, left slightly ajar by whoever brought in the coffee and toast, the chewed clump of bread caught in her throat, but she was too afraid to choke.
Along the width of the threshold, scarring the floor, baseboards, and door with crooked fissures, were scratch marks. Ones that were very real and very deep, and snarling at Jane with teeth made of splinters.
