She wakes to the crash of wood splintering, a snarl rolling through the night, a scream cut short.
Her pulse quickens as she stares at the ceiling, ears straining against the heavy quiet that follows. What was that?
The infant beside her remains still, bundled tight beneath the blankets, undisturbed by the chaos outside. She presses a hand to the child's chest, feeling the steady rise and fall, grounding herself in the warmth beneath her palm.
Her head feels heavy, sleep still clinging to the edges of her mind as she blinks against the darkness. She rubs at her face, dragging a hand down her cheek, trying to shake the fog from her thoughts.
The room is quiet, but something feels off.
Her gaze drifts toward the bedroom door—open, as always. It takes a moment for her groggy mind to register the distant creak of the front door.
The sound is slow, hesitant, as if whoever—or whatever—is moving is trying to avoid making the wood groan beneath them. The creak is faint, stretched between steps, each one placed with careful intent.
She keeps her eyes on the entrance to her room, heart pounding slow and heavy in her chest.
The faint glow of the fireplace at the front of the house flickers along the walls, casting unsteady shapes that stretch and waver with each dying ember. Her breath remains quiet, her body still, waiting, listening.
Then—movement.
A figure emerges through the doorway, his form barely visible at first, just a familiar shade cutting through the dark. Her fingers twitch against the blanket, dread coiling deep in her stomach, but then the faintest flicker of light catches on his uniform, the glint of metal in his grasp.
Her husband.
His expression is tight. He moves carefully, silently, his grip firm on the spear in his hand. He lifts a finger to his lips, his eyes locking onto hers, wide with urgency.
"Shhh."
Her breath falters, her face tightening as fear sinks into her bones. Her brow knots, her lips parting slightly, but no words come.
He crouches low, his eyes snapping toward the window, scanning the dark beyond the glass.
His brows pull tight, his eyes wide—not in fear, but in something heavier, something deeper.
She has seen him tired, she has seen him frustrated, even shaken after nights on duty. But this—this is different.
Raw, unshaken concern. The kind that makes her stomach twist. The kind that tells her there's no time to hesitate.
"Take her. Cover yourself. We need to leave. Now."
She doesn't question him. The look on his face tells her everything.
Her body moves before her mind catches up, slipping from the bed with the same careful precision she's practiced for months, the kind meant to keep the child asleep. But this time, the silence isn't for her daughter.
She reaches for her clothes, thick layers meant for the harsh cold—a fur-lined coat, heavy woolen trousers, gloves stiff from wear. The weight of winter settles on her shoulders as she pulls the garments tight.
She wraps the child in the same way, bundling her in furs, securing the fabric around her small frame.
The infant barely stirs.
With the child bundled tightly against her chest, she follows her husband in careful, silent movements. Her pulse pounds against her ribs, her ears straining to catch anything beyond the walls of their home.
Her husband reaches the front door first, his grip firm on the handle. He pauses, listening, his shoulders tense, his breath slow and even. Then, inch by inch, he begins to open it, the cold air slipping through the widening gap.
The moment the door cracks open, the sounds outside press in.
The thrashing. Heavy footfalls pound against the frozen ground. The screams ring out, cutting through the cold night air.
Snarls weave between them, growing and fading like a chorus of unseen predators. The silence that follows each sound stretches too long, dragging out the unbearable wait for the next cry to pierce the darkness.
The bundle stirs against her chest, a faint, restless movement beneath the thick layers of fabric. Her breath catches as she quickly looks down, adjusting her hold, her heart hammering against her ribs.
"Shh, shh, shh. I'm here, honey," she silently coos, her voice barely more than a breath. She rocks the child gently, tightening the furs around her, desperate to keep her still. The small body shifts once more, a tiny sigh escaping, then settles, her breathing evening out against her chest.
As she keeps her focus on the child, she feels a touch—his hand, searching for hers. Without hesitation, she gives it to him, his grip firm.
He pulls on her gently, guiding her forward.
The motion sends a fresh wave of fear twisting through her chest, her breath growing shallow as her eyes dart toward the open door.
Beyond it, the sounds of the night loom, waiting.
Each noise gnaws at the edge of her nerves.
Her chest tightens, fear clawing its way up her throat, every instinct screaming at her to turn back, to hide, to stay where it's safe.
She follows him—not because she isn't afraid, but because she trusts him. Because he is the man who has always kept her safe, the man who has never let her fall.
The cold air bites at her face as they step into the open. She glances down at the bundle in her arms, checking for any sign of distress due to the cold. The child remains still, tucked deep within the thick furs.
She tightens her hold, shielding her as best she can against the bitter wind.
Ahead, her husband moves, his grip keeping her close.
He doesn't lead them toward the main road. Instead, he pulls her toward the alley, the narrow passage stretching between darkened buildings, offering shadows instead of open space.
Shadows dart across the rooftops above them and slip through the alley crossings ahead, moving unnaturally fast.
The noises around them—snarls overhead, footsteps scraping against stone, the distant screams echoing through the night—never stop.
Then the window to their side explodes outward, shards of glass scattering as a body slams into the frame, nearly breaking through.
Her breath catches as she quickly turns away, pulling her hand from her husband's grasp, her focus entirely on the child. She cradles the bundle closer, shielding her with her arms, her body curling instinctively to block out the horrors behind her.
Behind her, the sound begins.
A sickening gurgle chokes through the air. The thing caught in the window struggles, limbs jerking, nails scraping against the wood as it tries to resist the pull dragging it back.
A gasp, raw and ragged, slips from its throat, followed by a series of shallow, desperate clicks—the last, frantic sounds of a body fighting against something far stronger than itself.
Her chest tightens, her stomach twisting as each chew grinds through the flesh and bone. Her mind blanks, drowning beneath the sheer horror of it, her body locked in place as though movement itself might draw attention to her next.
She feels him approach, his presence closing the space between them. Her body tenses, a sharp flinch running through her shoulders before his voice reaches her.
"It's me, sweetheart."
The words pull her back, just enough. Before she can react, his arms wrap around them both, the warmth of him pressing against her as he holds them close. The embrace is firm, grounding, soothing in a way she didn't realize she needed.
Her breath shudders, the terror still gripping her, but his touch keeps her from spiraling.
Then, his voice comes again, quiet, meant only for her.
"We just need to get to the gate. We'll be safe then."
She turns toward him, her breath still unsteady. Her gaze moves to his face, searching for reassurance, for something solid to hold onto in the chaos.
Then she notices.
He looks like he wants to be confident, but the fear in his eyes betrays him. His jaw is tight, his breathing controlled but shallow, as if forcing himself to hold it together.
He is not steady, not unshaken, but he tries—and somehow, that soothes her more than anything.
Her breath shakes as it returns, her body slowly remembering how to move. She blinks, tears welling in her eyes, blurring her vision as she looks up at him.
His face is drawn tight, his fear unmistakable, but still, he presses on. He is afraid, yet he moves. He is breaking, yet he holds her.
She looks down, her arms tightening around the child.
A small, trembling smile forms as she sees her, unaware of the horror just feet away.
They resume their advance toward the front gates, moving through the narrow alley.
The snow beneath their feet is no longer pristine but stained in dark streaks, trampled and mixed with mud.
As they move past the next building, she catches sight of a window—shattered, its frame twisted and broken as if something forced its way through despite not fitting.
Splintered wood and jagged glass line the edges, smeared with streaks of blood where flesh must have been scraped against it.
Whatever had entered—or exited—had done so with brute force, tearing through without hesitation.
Her stomach clenches at the thought of what that meant for whoever had been inside.
They press on.
Then—the gate comes into view.
Or what's left of it.
The double doors that once stood as a barrier between the village and the outside world are shattered. One side lies in the snow, splintered and broken, the other barely hanging from twisted hinges.
Blood stains the wood, smeared in frantic handprints, streaked along the ground where bodies were dragged.
He turns back, eyes searching hers. He nods once. She returns it. Not far now.
They move, silent, steps careful against the frozen ground. The wreckage of the gate looms ahead, the road beyond stretching beyond, far from whatever nightmare this is.
A crack breaks the quiet.
She flinches. It comes from the building beside the gate. A sharp crack splits the air, deep and sudden. The sound crawls through the wood, splintering unseen, the foundation groaning as if alive.
The roof shifts.
Her breath hitches. She looks down at the child.
The noises grow. The creaking deepens into a grinding wail, beams twisting, snapping one by one. The weight of the building gives way, collapsing in a thunderous crash.
The ground shakes beneath her feet.
She wraps herself around the child, shielding her from the blast of cold air and debris as splinters and shards of stone scatter across the street.
Then—Her eyes widen as she notices her child stirring, her little features tightening. Her breath shudders.
Then, a whimper.
"We gotta move!" her husband whispers, urgency tightening his voice as his grip tugs at her arm. His eyes dart to the gate ahead, then back to her, wide with fear.
She obeys, rocking the child gently as she moves, her breath uneven, her hands trembling against the thick furs wrapped around the infant's tiny body.
"Shh, shh, shh," she soothes, trying to bring her back to silence, her voice nearly swallowed by the pounding of her own heartbeat. The baby squirms in her hold, little fingers clenching in the warmth of the bundle, her small chest rising with hiccupped breaths.
A sharp cry breaks free from the child's lips, a single piercing note that cuts through the night.
For an instant, the village holds still, the distant sounds of carnage seemingly swallowed by the weight of that one fragile sound. Then it begins again—a wail rising as the baby's tiny body twists in distress.
They don't stop.
Her legs burn as she moves, boots sinking into the slush of trampled snow and mud, her husband leading her forward, grip firm but hurried.
The gate is in sight, the dark stretch of road beyond promising an escape from whatever nightmare they currently reside in.
Then she sees it.
A shape emerges down the street, cutting through the dim light with unnatural speed. Its limbs stretch unnervingly long, each impact against the frozen ground sending up bursts of slush and bloodied snow.
The way it moves is wrong—too smooth, too fast, its body coiling and propelling forward with terrifying efficiency.
It runs on all fours, its frame hunched and uneven, the weight of it shifting with each stride. The head jerks toward the wailing child, the movement sharp, predatory.
Eyes catch what little light remains, twin points of hunger locking onto her, unblinking, fixed with an intent that turns her stomach.
Her vision blurs as tears slip down her cheeks in silent, uncontrollable streaks. Her arms tighten around the baby, rocking her faster, desperate to calm her.
"Please, please, please," she whispers, her words raw, a trembling smile forced onto her lips, her voice barely holding together as her legs struggle to keep moving.
Her husband releases her, stepping forward, spear held tight, posture shifting.
Without looking back, he veers off, his focus set on the creature closing in. "Go," he orders, his voice steady despite everything unraveling around them.
She doesn't move.
His eyes flick toward her, just once. "Go!" he yells, already surging forward.
She forces her legs to carry her, stumbling at first before finding her stride, her body breaking into a full sprint.
"It's okay, sweetheart, it'll be okay," she whispers against the baby's cries, voice faltering with each breath. "Daddy will take care of it, okay?"
The weight of the child in her arms grounds her, the warmth against her chest the only thing keeping her from unraveling entirely.
The air burns as she runs past the shattered gate, her boots kicking up slush and bloodstained snow. "It will be okay, we'll be okay, Daddy will be okay—"
A scream erupts behind her.
"RUUUUN—"
The word is severed, choked off in an instant.
Her vision blurs, but she doesn't stop, doesn't look back. Her lungs ache, her legs threaten to buckle beneath her, but she pushes forward, her entire body burning under the strain.
Then she hears it.
It isn't the wind or the distant echoes of dying screams. It is steady, rhythmic, an impact against the ground, gaining speed.
At first, it blends into the chaos of her own pounding heartbeat, but as it grows louder, closer, the sound separates—distinct, inescapable.
Something is coming.
Her chest tightens until she can barely breathe, her throat locking, her mouth opens but she is unable to scream.
The sensation coils deep inside her ribs, a pressure that spreads cold through her veins, wrapping around her like a vice. Every inch of her body knows what is behind her.
She cannot look. She cannot stop.
The wailing rises, filling the night, echoing against the ruins.
Then—pain.
A searing, burning agony tears through her back, rips into her shoulder, white-hot and merciless. The force sends her forward, her body weightless for a fleeting second before gravity claims her.
The child slips from her grasp, the warmth of her tiny body leaving her arms as she plummets.
Her world slows.
She sees the child above her, weightless in the frozen air, mouth open in a wail. Tiny fingers reach outward, her face twisted in fear, her cry raw and desperate.
The ground rushes up to meet her. She reaches, fingers outstretched, straining, desperate—