Horror Nights
That night, the scratching began.
It wasn't on the door, but under the floorboards. A frantic, wet sound, like something with too many limbs trying to find a gap in the stone foundation. I lay in my bed, clutching my blankets, listening to the wind scream. Suddenly, I heard it—the woman’s voice, no longer cheerful, but a distorted, multi-tonal shriek that vibrated through the very logs of the house.
“Food! I want more food!”
The house shook. A heavy shelf in the shop collapsed, the sound of breaking glass echoing through the hallways. My grandfather appeared in my doorway, holding a rusted shotgun in one hand and a bowl of something dark and steaming in the other.
Bab Populer