Vane pressed his back against the cold stone wall, listen. The sun had slipped behind the hills ten minutes ago and the streets were already dead. Not a single bird cried out in the canopy above.
He checked the latch on the heavy wooden door one last time. It held firm, a thick wedge of oak braced against the frame. His fingers brushed the rough grain of the wood, counting the grooves he had carved into it.
Outside, a sharp metallic scrape echoed against the cobbles. It was rhythmic, a slow drag of claws on rock that made bile rise in his throat. Vane pulled his knees to his chest and buried his face in his jacket.
He watched the crack under the door. A pale, milky light seeped in from the street, casting deformed shapes onto the floorboards. The creature paced past his threshold, its breathing a dry rattle that sounded like shifting gravel.
If it stops, do not breathe, he told himself. The rattle continued past the house, fading toward the edge of town, leaving Vane in the dark.