The scratching came just before dawn. It sounded faint, measured, almost polite. Catherine’s eyes snapped open. She lay still, listening. Out here, at the edge of the forest, silence had a weight to it, and when it broke, it meant something was close.
The sound came again, a slow drag against glass, as if claws were tracing the outline of her window. She sat up, every nerve burning awake, her breath shallow in the cold air. For a moment, the noise stopped. Then, from outside, came a small, guttural cry.
Catherine crossed the room, each step deliberate, her pulse drumming in her ears. She pulled the curtain back just enough to see, and froze. On her porch, half-hidden in the blue wash of early light, something watched her. Its eyes glowed amber, unblinking. Waiting.