The book is gone. But I hear him in the walls.

That night, the closet door didn't close all the way. Around 3:17 AM, I heard knuckles dragging down the hallway wall. Not knocking. Dragging. Long, slow, like something with too many fingers was learning the shape of our home.

He makes you do it yourself.

Not the kind you buy at a fair. This one was wrapped in gray twine, left on the porch in the rain. No note. No return address. My son found it first. Said it smelled like "old basement and medicine."

Last night, I saw him in the mirror behind my reflection. Not moving. Just there . Patient. When I blinked, he leaned closer.