Panic edges into my throat as I resist the urge to shush her. I sense movement beside me. Trey has lifted the rifle and is now pointing the barrel forward.

A shape edges into view. It looks human, except for the fact that its body is blurred by a radiating glow. Except for the fact that it’s unimaginably tall.

I hardly dare to breathe as it rises off the floor, no longer stepping but floating down the hallway, the top of its head almost brushing the ceiling. Something flows from its head all the way to the ground, but it’s not hair—not exactly. It’s nearly transparent, and it shifts with the creature’s movement. It might be a hood, made of silk like water.

Emmaline whines again.

The creature freezes. Turns its head.

It has no eyes.

A long forehead extends all the way down to a small flattened nose. Instead of eyes, there are vague hollows smoothed over with whatever passes for skin, as if this creature had eyes once upon a time but gave up on them and closed them forever. Beneath the small nose is a wide mouth with lips as black as tar.

My heart knocks against my ribs as that black mouth opens. And opens, and opens.

Until it’s a huge black maw, glistening with something slimy. I think of a snake unhinging its jaw.

Trey flicks off the safety of his gun.

The creature breathes at us. One long breath, followed by several short pants.

Emmaline growls deep in her throat.

My legs twitch with the need to flee. Even if the creature can’t see us, surely it can hear us. Or smell us. Surely it senses the pounding drum of my heart.

It howls. Like a wolf, but deeper, and as the sound echoes around us, thrums in my head, all the hairs on my arm stand up straight. “Oooowww?” it says.

It’s talking to us. I’m sure of it.

“Owww? Howww you?”

Trey gasps.

“Hooww do you I? Howw do you aliving?”

We should make a run for it, I know we should, but I am utterly frozen.

“How do you aliving?” Its voice resonates like a plucked guitar string, each word a note that twangs in my skull.

It stretches out a hand toward us. It has six fingers and no thumbs, though its palm is almost cylindrical, with all the fingers opposing each other. At the end of each finger is a long black fingernail.

A clicking sound. Something ripples down the glowing flesh of its arm and hand.

Pain sears my shoulder and something darts past my ear a split second before I register that the black nails have detached from the hand and bulleted toward us.