It settled into the stones of your room, thick and still, a chill that had nothing to do with the storm lashing the windows. The rain was a constant drumbeat, the thunder a distant, rolling growl.

And beneath it, the tapping. Not in the walls anymore. Inside them. Closer.

Your closet door stood across the room, a slice of deeper black against the dark. You were certain you had latched it.

A flash of lightning. The door was ajar.

Another crack of thunder, closer now, shaking the glass in the panes. The tapping stopped.

Silence, heavy and waiting.