The cabin smelled of damp wood and something faintly metallic. Leon ran a hand over the antique desk, his fingers catching on an etching in the grain—an uneven spiral, carved deep. His stomach tightened, but he shook off the feeling. The estate sale had been a steal, and he wouldn’t let himself get spooked over some scratches.
That night, as wind pressed against the windows, he heard it—the scrape of metal on wood. He turned in bed, pulse quickening. Just the house settling, he told himself. Still, curiosity gnawed at him. He crept to the desk and found the spiral had deepened, fresh shavings curling in the dim light. His breath hitched, sweat cooling on his skin.
Something shifted in the shadows behind him, and suddenly, the smell of rust was overwhelming. A whisper, dry as dead leaves, slithered into his ear.
“Mine now.”
The floor opened beneath him, and the darkness swallowed him whole.
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