You'd taken a shortcut home. A stupid decision, really. The kind of decision you make when you're tired, when your feet ache, and when the idea of walking an extra fifteen minutes feels unbearable.

The first sign something was wrong was the silence. The usual hum of the city — distant traffic, muffled conversations, the occasional dog barking — had simply... stopped.

Then came the cold. Not the kind that comes from winter air. The kind that seeps into your bones, that makes your breath visible even though it's June. The kind that feels wrong.

And then — movement. At the end of the alley. Something tall. Something that shouldn't be there. Its limbs bend at angles that don't make sense, and it's dragging itself across the brick wall like an insect, leaving trails of something dark and wet.

It stops.

It turns.

(Where does it see me? I didn't move. I didn't make a sound.)

The thing has no face. Just a smooth, pale surface where features should be. But somehow, you know it's looking at you.

And then you hear it. Not with your ears — with your mind. A voice that isn't a voice. A presence that wasn't there a moment ago.

The thing's head tilts. Its body begins to unfold, limbs stretching, growing, blocking the only exit behind it.

The darkness is absolute.

And then — another voice. Not from outside. From inside. From somewhere deep in your chest, your skull, your very bones. A voice that sounds ancient and amused and utterly unconcerned.