It was happening again.

 
Penelope shrunk back and away from the door of her small closet, the only barrier between herself and what awaited her in her bedroom. In her quivering hand she clutched a kitchen knife, her knuckles white and numb from the pressure. In the back of her mind, she knew the knife wouldn’t save her, but she forced herself to believe otherwise, even if it was only false hope.

 
The house seemed to swell with every audible deep breath the creature outside her door took. In truth, she couldn’t be sure if it was outside her door or in any other spot in her house. Its breathing always sounded the same, and she could never hear its footsteps—just a deep, gurgling wet inhale and exhale.

 
This was the third time. The first time it happened, she thought it was her furnace, and she had called a repair service the next day to get it checked. The man told her that everything was in working order, and the noise had left her mind. It happened again a few months later, and she had left her house to sleep at a friend’s, concerned that there might be something wrong with her appliances.

 
Now, just a week later, it was happening again. Only this time, she had no doubt that it wasn’t her house doing this. It started when she was on her couch, curled up in front of the TV, mindless reality shows as white noise in the background while she typed away on her laptop, finishing up an edit for the morning.

 
The breathing started low, and when she turned down the volume on the television, it stopped, which led her to believe it was coming from the reality drama on-screen. She switched the channel to the news. A few minutes later it had started again, followed by a dampening on the back of her neck, like air on a rainy summer day. She jumped, dropping her laptop on the floor and likely losing her edit in the process. Whipping around, she had seen nothing, but she could still hear it. It was an unsettling noise, always just out of reach, but close enough to feel as though it were right next to her.

 
She had called a friend—Drew, an old college classmate that worked as a bouncer a couple streets over—and asked if he could come over, apologizing for the late hour and for calling him when he was off work. But when she explained what was happening, he told her not to move, and to find a lockable door that she could get behind to wait for him. That was nearly ten minutes ago, she guessed. She wasn’t sure, as she had lost her phone in the ensuing commotion.

 
Her kettle had started to scream, and for a second, she was caught off guard. But then she remembered that she hadn’t intended to make tea, and she nearly vomited from the hot flush of fear she felt in her head. She had bolted, trying to run through her narrow hallway to her bedroom, which had a lock on the door. When she made it to her room and slammed the door shut behind her, locking it in place, she had thought she was safe.

 
But then the framed picture of her and her work friends had shattered on her nightstand, and she ran into the closet, where her overnight bag from a week ago still laid, and thankfully still had her empty food containers and cutlery in it. She was a slob, yes, but now she was an armed slob. It was only when she went to call Drew that she realized she didn’t have her phone with her, and that she would just have to wait until he got there. She guessed it would be another agonizingly slow and fearful five minutes before he was busting down her door. She’d have to get a key cut for him next time, or just move in with him.

 
She heard a loud rattling from downstairs, and then a voice shouting. Drew. She heard something breaking and then heavy footsteps, and she knew Drew was inside. She didn’t call out to him, afraid it would reach her first. She heard his voice shouting up to her a few seconds later, telling her to stay where she was while he checked the house.

 
She waited for what felt like hours, but she knew it was only minutes. Footsteps walked past her room and then into it, pausing before her door. In a quick motion, her door was flung open, and she brandished her knife in front of her, ready to stab whatever was in her house.

 
“Whoa there.” Strong hands gripped her upper arms and steadied her. Ears ringing, she sagged against the body of her friend as the adrenaline leaked from her being, her breath steadying. “Let’s not stab the friend, okay?” She looked up to see a crooked smile on his face and felt a shudder roll through her as she fell apart in front of him, sobbing on his shirt while his hands smoothed over her back in comforting circles.

 
“I’m sorry,” she hiccupped, pulling back from him and peering at his shirt, which now had two large splotches of her tears on its front.

 
“Hey, it’s fine. You’re alright, okay?” He looked into her eyes and tried to smile reassuringly. “Nothing’s going to hurt you now. False alarm, yeah?”

 
She nodded her head and then asked him to stay over for a few hours. He agreed, and soon they were sitting on the couch in front of the TV, eating popcorn and watching The Princess Bride while Penelope huddled into his side under a blanket.

 
Penelope and Drew had become friends in college, where she was studying to be a painter, and he was studying criminology. He had become a bouncer, and she had become a copyeditor at a publishing house. Drew had always encouraged her to pursue painting, but after ten years and more than enough failed attempts later, she had given up. She wasn’t complaining though, being a copyeditor was just as good.

 
“Thank you for coming over,” she whispered, as Buttercup and Westley made their way through the Fire Swamp on-screen.

 
Drew leaned his head against hers and sighed. “You know I don’t mind. I’m used to your antics by now.” Penelope hummed under her breath and excused herself to go to the washroom.

 
After washing her hands, she started to head back to Drew, but then decided to get more popcorn and headed down the hall to the kitchen instead. She was almost there when her foot stepped in something wet and she slid across the floor. Heart in her throat, she almost screamed, but managed to hold it in and looked down to the floor. In the darkness, she couldn’t see anything on the hardwood, and she went to turn the light on. The puddle was in front of her laundry room door, and she was worried that her washer had broken, but she couldn’t remember turning it on that night.

 
Light flooded the narrow hallway, and Penelope turned around, shaking. She gagged and nearly vomited when she saw the puddle of red spilling out from under her closed laundry room door. Staggering back, she brought a hand to her heart and tried to calm herself. She knew she had to open the door.

 
Halfway to the threshold, feet leaving red prints on the ground, she wondered why she hadn’t just called for Drew. Clearly, he would be more equipped to handle a situation like this. But she pushed on, and when her hand gripped the handle, she paused, body swaying as her head filled with a nauseating heat. She took a deep breath and opened the door.

Drew’s lifeless eyes stared up at her, his body twisted at odd angles, his throat and stomach gouged with deep slashes that looked like claw marks, but nothing she knew of had claws that large. She didn’t scream, she couldn’t. All the air had been knocked out of her and she struggled to stay conscious and on her feet.

 
Dimly, she heard footsteps coming towards her, and when she turned around, Drew was standing over her. It was then that she recalled him walking into her room earlier, through the door that she knew had been locked. She realized then where she had gone wrong, looking up into its eyes. Its eyes were a light honey colour, shining even though it was backlit by the hallway light. They were nothing like the deep chocolate hue of Drew’s eyes.

 
With nothing left to do, Phoebe opened her mouth and screamed.