The house was silent, the only sound the rapid thudding of Peter's heart. He quickly went through the house, checking every door, every window, making sure everything was locked. The walls seemed to close in on him, and the darkness outside pressed against the windows like a living thing, eager to get in.
After what felt like an eternity, Peter managed to calm himself down enough to make a simple meal. But his hands were shaking so badly that he could barely eat. He kept glancing at the door, expecting to hear another scream or see a shadow pass by the window.
Just as he was about to sit down, a loud knock echoed through the house—three slow, deliberate thuds. Peter froze, his blood running cold. He glanced at the clock on the wall; it was almost midnight.
Who could be out there at this hour, in the middle of nowhere?
Peter's mind raced. It had to be his father, returning early. But something in his gut told him that wasn't right, that whatever was outside wasn't his father, wasn't even human.
Cautiously, he approached the window and peered out into the darkness. But there was nothing, just the inky blackness of the night. The house creaked and groaned, and a cold gust of wind rattled the windowpanes. Peter hesitated, then slowly opened the door.
A blast of frigid air whipped through the entrance, making Peter shiver. The cold was unnatural, seeping into his bones. It felt thick, as if something unseen had slipped inside with the wind. Peter's hand trembled as he quickly shut the door and locked it again.