Chapter 1: The Scratching on the Pane

Chapter 1: The Scratching on the Pane

The moving truck had rumbled away hours ago, leaving behind a profound silence that was both a comfort and a curse. Alex Carter stood in the middle of his new living room, surrounded by a fortress of cardboard boxes. Each one was a tombstone for a life he’d desperately needed to leave behind. The apartment, number 3B in a grim-faced building called “The Blackwood,” wasn’t much. The floorboards groaned under his weight, the paint was peeling in melancholic strips, and a faint, musty smell of damp earth and decay clung to the air. But it was cheap, and more importantly, it was hundreds of miles away from Mark.

Tonight was supposed to be the first page of a new chapter. A quiet, blessedly empty page.

He ran a hand through his dark, unkempt hair, the gesture doing little to soothe the frantic hummingbird of anxiety in his chest. His reflection in the dark window was a pale, haunted stranger with tired eyes. He looked away, focusing on the simple task of unboxing the essentials: his kettle, a mug, a box of chamomile tea. The mundane rituals were his anchor in a sea of uncertainty.

Mark’s voice, a venomous whisper in his memory, mocked him. ”You can’t even handle being alone for one night, can you? So weak.”

Alex shook his head, trying to physically dislodge the thought. “Shut up,” he muttered to the empty room. He wasn’t weak. He was starting over. This was his sanctuary.

The kettle whistled, a shrill, welcome sound that cut through the oppressive quiet. He poured the steaming water into his mug, cupping the ceramic warmth in his cold hands. He took a seat on the only piece of furniture he’d assembled—a simple wooden stool—and stared out the large, single-pane window that overlooked a narrow, lightless alley.

That’s when he first heard it.

Scritch. Scritch-scratch.

It was a faint, dry sound. Alex froze, his mug halfway to his lips. He strained his ears, listening over the frantic pounding of his own heart. The building was old; it was probably just settling. Or maybe a rat in the walls. He took a sip of tea, the chamomile failing to calm the sudden tremor in his hands.

Scritch… scratch… scritch.

There it was again. More deliberate this time. It wasn't the sound of a house settling, nor the frantic scrabbling of a rodent. This was rhythmic. Measured. It sounded like a fingernail dragging slowly, deliberately, across glass.

His eyes darted to the window.

He was on the third floor. The alley below was a sheer drop. There were no trees with branches long enough to reach this high, no fire escape on this side of the building. Nothing.

“It’s the wind,” he whispered, the words tasting like a lie. A loose window frame, maybe. That had to be it.

He tried to ignore it, unpacking a box of books with forced, jerky movements. He pulled out his laptop and speakers, plugging them in and flooding the room with the familiar comfort of his favorite indie band. The music was a shield, a wall of sound to keep the outside world at bay. For a few minutes, it worked. The bass vibrated through the floorboards, and the singer’s melancholy voice filled the space where his own anxious thoughts had been festering. He managed to unpack an entire box, stacking novels and graphic design textbooks on a dusty shelf. He was fine. This was fine.

He paused the music to find a new album.

In the sudden, ringing silence, the sound returned.

SCRATCH. SCRATCH. SCRATCH.

It was louder now. More insistent. A dry, grating sound that set his teeth on edge and sent a shiver slithering down his spine. It was coming directly from the window pane, right in the center. It sounded like someone was out there, demanding to be noticed.

The rational part of his brain screamed that it was impossible. The part of him that Mark had so carefully cultivated—the part that doubted his own senses, his own sanity—began to stir. Was he just hearing things? Mark would have said so. He would have called him hysterical.

But this was real. He could almost feel the vibration through the air.

The desire for a peaceful night, for a safe new start, was being systematically dismantled by this single, impossible sound. Fear, cold and sharp, pricked at him. He could stay here, cowering on the floor, letting the terror win. Or he could face it. He had to prove to himself, if no one else, that he wasn’t the fragile, broken thing Mark had tried to make him.

His feet felt like lead as he pushed himself up. Each creak of the floorboards under his sneakers was a thunderclap in the tense silence. The room felt cavernous, the distance to the window an impassable gulf. The scratching stopped, as if it knew he was approaching, as if it was waiting for him. The silence was worse, thick with anticipation.

He stood a foot away from the window, staring at the thin, faded curtain he’d hung earlier. It offered no real protection, but it was a barrier between his world and… whatever was outside. His hand trembled as he reached for the fabric. His breath hitched in his throat.

Taking a shuddering gulp of air, he yanked the curtain aside.

For a moment, he saw nothing but his own terrified reflection against the blackness of the night. A wave of relief, so potent it almost made his knees buckle, washed over him. He’d imagined it. It was just his frayed nerves, the stress of the move, the ghosts of his past playing tricks on him. He let out a weak, shaky laugh.

Then, the figure resolved itself from the darkness.

It wasn't a reflection. It was there. Pressed against the other side of the glass.

It was impossibly tall, its gaunt frame seeming to stretch and bend at unnatural angles to fit in the window. The skin was the color of old bone, pulled taut over a skeletal frame. Its face was a smooth, androgynous blank, indistinct except for two hollow, dark sockets where eyes should have been—voids that seemed to drink the meager light from the room and offered nothing back. A long, spindly arm was raised, and a single, needle-like finger was poised just inches from the glass.

Alex’s scream died in his throat, choked off by a primal terror that seized every muscle in his body. His mind refused to process what his eyes were seeing. The third floor. No ledge. No ropes. No earthly way for it to be there. It was simply… present. A violation of every law of physics and reason.

The thing’s head tilted, a slow, curious gesture that was utterly alien. It seemed to look right through him, into the deepest, most terrified corners of his soul. It was studying him. Tasting his fear.

Then, slowly, it moved.

The skeletal hand lowered. The long, pale finger rose, not to scratch again, but to press against where its lips should have been.

Shhh.

The command wasn't spoken. It wasn't a whisper carried on the wind. It was a thought, an imperative, pushed directly into his mind. It was a silent, absolute order that bypassed his ears and slammed directly into his consciousness.

Be quiet.

The entity held the pose, its empty sockets fixed on him, its silent command echoing in the screaming void of his mind. The world narrowed to the thin pane of glass separating him from the impossible nightmare. The terror wasn't just beginning. It was already inside.

And Alex, a prisoner in his own home, obeyed. He didn’t make a sound.