The radio sputtered, spewing static like a dying wasp. Rain lashed against the cabin walls, a relentless drumming that mirrored the frantic beat of Sarah's heart. John, her husband, was gone. Just vanished into the storm an hour ago, promising to check the generator.
She strained to hear over the tempest, calling his name again, the sound swallowed by the hungry wind. A floorboard creaked above, a slow, methodical groan that sent a shiver down her spine. The cabin was small, the source of the sound undeniable.
Suddenly, a soft thud. Then silence. Sarah grabbed a heavy iron skillet, the familiar weight a small comfort. Tentatively, she climbed the creaky stairs. The single bare bulb cast long, distorted shadows. The room was empty. But on the dusty floor, a single muddy footprint faced the window.
Sarah's breath hitched. John wore boots. This print was bare, three perfect toes splayed wide. A primal terror gripped her. As she turned to flee, a cold hand clamped over her mouth. A wet, rasping voice whispered in her ear, "Welcome home, Sarah."
