The door rattled. Not a slam. Just a soft, patient testing of the lock. Then the voice again, clearer now, almost gentle.
A long silence. Then, pressed directly against the wood of the door, as if the thing outside had laid its cheek against the grain: Fear the Night
Elara pressed her back against the headboard, knuckles white around the hammer’s handle. The candles had burned low. She’d stopped using lanterns months ago—light attracted them, or maybe it just made their shadows look more like people. The door rattled