It came again, louder this time.
I looked around, squinting in the dim light, scanning the floor, the walls, the darkened corners where something might be hiding.
A mouse, perhaps? Or rats in the walls?
I pushed the blanket away and leaned over one side of the bed, peering into the darkness beneath. There was nothing. I slid to the other side and looked there as well, but found only empty space and gathering dust.
The sound came again.
My head jerked up toward my door.
The scratching was coming from the corridor just outside my room, I was certain of it now.
It came again, longer this time, the unmistakable sound of something—or someone—dragging nails down the wooden surface of a door.
I hesitated, my imagination conjuring the image of Dr. Ambrose’s wife standing on the other side—her eyes hollow and black, her mouth overflowing with that gelatinous blood that had dripped onto her nightgown, and vines coiling around her body.
I swallowed hard, forcing myself from the bed. Every instinct screamed at me to stay where I was, to pull the covers over my head like a frightened child and pretend I had heard nothing, but I could not pretend the sound did not exist when it was so clearly, viscerally real.
I stood there beside my bed for a long moment before finally crossing to the door. Each step was like walking through deep water, my muscles fighting against the movement. I reached the door and placed my hand on the handle, my palm slick with sweat.
Another long scratching sound came from the other side, nails digging deep into the wood, scoring the surface with desperate intent.
I took a deep breath and slowly opened the door.
The corridor was empty.
I paused on the threshold, staring into the dimness, seeing nothing but the dark outline of doors along the hall.
Cautiously, I left my room and turned to look toward the other end. There—standing by Dr. Ambrose’s door—washis wife. Her hand was pressed against it, her fingernails digging into the wood as she frantically scraped at the surface. Back and forth, back and forth, the sound echoing down the corridor with terrible urgency, trying to get inside, locked out of her own bedchamber and desperate to enter.
I took a step closer, my breaths coming in rapid, shallow gasps that did not seem to bring enough air into my lungs.
“Mrs. Ambrose?”
She did not turn. She simply continued scraping at the door, her movements growing faster and more frantic. The panic in her actions was palpable, radiating from her spectral form in waves I felt against my skin.
I stared at her, frozen, unsure what to do. Should I try to speak to her again? Should I flee back to my room and lock the door and pretend I had seen nothing?
I forced myself to continue forward, one hesitant step at a time, my eyes fixed on her.
She was wearing the same nightgown as the first time I had seen her. My eyes drifted upward, taking in more details. Her tangled hair hung loose around her shoulders, obscuring her face as she bent toward the door. I leaned to one side, trying to get a better view of her features as I approached, but her hair blocked them entirely.
“Hello?” I called out softly.
Again, she ignored me, lifting her other hand now and digging both sets of fingernails into the door with ferocity, scratching so hard gouges appeared in the wood, creatingdeep furrows that should not be possible from something without physical substance.
I froze as she began to sob. The sound started as a whimper, then grew louder, more desperate, until her spectral form shuddered violently.
Her scratching became more frantic—then she screamed.
The sound pierced the silent hall with such force that I instinctively covered my ears, pressing my palms hard against my head. It did nothing to quiet the sound, as though it resonated within my skull.
“Nicholas!” The woman wailed, her voice raw with anguish and terror. “Please! Please, let me out!”
I stumbled backward, my hands still pressed against my ears, my mind reeling from the realization. She was not trying to get into the bedchamber.
She was trying to get out of somewhere.
