The Alcott family had lived on the outskirts of Ashford Heath for generations. Their cattle ranch, nestled between gnarled oak trees, stood 20 miles from the village—closer than Elias had ever dared to settle. It was a quiet life, dictated by the seasons and the steady rhythm of farm work. They rarely ventured into town except for supplies, and even then, only when necessary.

  Tonight, however, unease crept in.

  Thomas Alcott sat by the dying fire, absently sharpening a hunting knife. A carpenter by trade and a cattleman by necessity, his hands were calloused from years of labor. He had built this house himself, each beam carved and set with precision. The walls were thick, the roof sturdy, and the great front door—a single slab of reinforced oak—was his heart and handiwork . He had designed it to withstand storms, wild beasts, and anything else the untamed land could throw at it.

  His wife, Miriam, mended a tunic by candlelight, her fingers working the needle with steady precision. Their daughter, Eliza, barely six years old, slept soundly in the loft above, her soft breaths a comforting presence in the otherwise silent home.

  A gust of wind rattled the shutters. Thomas frowned. He was used to the howling winds that came with the shifting seasons, but this was different—too sudden, too deliberate, like a breath exhaled by something unseen.

  Miriam paused, glancing up. "That was strange," she murmured.

  Then came a distant sound—low, drawn-out, almost a groan. The cattle.

  Thomas stiffened, setting his knife down. He moved to the window, peering out toward the grazing fields. The barn stood silhouetted against the moonlight, but the cows were restless, shifting uneasily, their lowing carrying through the night.

  "Something's out there," he muttered.

  Miriam stood, setting her sewing aside. "Thomas, don't—"

  But he was already reaching for his coat and lantern. Above the hearth, he tugged his great axe free from its mount, the blade glinting faintly in the fire's dying embers. "If something's spooked them, I need to check."

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  He stepped outside, the door groaning shut behind him.

  The house fell into silence.

  Miriam held her breath, straining to hear. The usual sounds of the night—chirping insects, rustling leaves—had vanished. The fire crackled softly, but it did little to push back the oppressive weight of the quiet. She glanced up toward the loft, listening for Eliza's breathing. Still there. Still steady.

  Then came a distant crack.

  Miriam flinched. The cattle bellowed in distress, the sound high-pitched, desperate. Another crack—wood splintering—followed by a heavy, thunderous noise, like hooves pounding in panic.

  Then, silence again.

  She gripped the edge of the table. "Thomas?" she whispered.

  A shuffling sound. Slow, uneven footsteps. They were running. He was running.

  A moment later, Thomas crashed through the door, slamming it shut behind him. His face was pale, his breath ragged. Without a word, he lunged for the heavy oak beam that reinforced the door and dropped it into place. It fell with a resounding thud.

  Miriam stared at him. "What is it?"

  Thomas shook his head, unable to speak. His hands trembled.

  Then came the first impact.

  The door shuddered violently, dust raining from the rafters. The heavy oak beam groaned under the strain but held firm.

  A second blow, harder this time. The walls shook, the iron hinges shrieking. A deep, guttural growl rumbled through the wood, reverberating through the beams like a living thing. Then—sharp, deliberate—came the sound of claws tapping against the floorboards just beyond the threshold, slow and methodical, as if whatever was outside was testing the strength of its prey.

  Miriam clutched Eliza as the girl woke with a startled cry. "Thomas!"

  He grabbed his bow, hands slick with sweat. "Stay back."

  Then came the roar—a sound so deep and unnatural it seemed to shake the very foundation of the house. The third strike struck like a battering ram, splintering the great beam in a single, thunderous crack.

  The great door—his door, the one he had carved and set with his own hands, meant to withstand storms and siege—split clean down the center and blew inward. A cold, suffocating darkness surged into the cabin, swallowing the candlelight whole.

  Miriam barely had time to scream before it was cut off.

  A sickening crunch.

  Thomas loosed an arrow into the void, but he never saw where it landed.

  Eliza's terrified cry echoed through the night.

  And then, silence.

  By morning, the Alcott ranch stood abandoned, its walls clawed and broken, its hearth long since gone cold. There was no sign of the family. Only the shattered remains of the great oak door lay scattered across the floor, the final barrier torn asunder.