The steady tick of the mantle clock greeted the intruder but otherwise all was silent. Inside the home was old but just as well kept as the outside, its furnishings tidy and comfortable. The living room where the window led was carpeted with a thick woolen rug, at one time richly dyed, and good for quieting the footfalls of both tenant and thief alike. Shelves of books lined two walls behind a sitting area, dimly outlined in the small amount of light filtering through the windows. Beyond it, the doorway leading to the hall.
In the hush of the sleeping house, the ticking from the mantle seemed to grow to fill the room. The whir of the clock’s mechanism growing like a cicada’s buzz behind the rhythmic beat that propelled the hands around the face. Those ticks seemed to lengthen unnaturally, extending well beyond the seconds they were intended to mark.

And then it stopped.

In the corners of the room the gathered shadows began to expand, bleeding into the starlight-brightened areas like ink will spread in water. Oily, unnatural tendrils extended outward to creep along the worn carpet toward where the intruder stood. A shadow filled the doorway where there was none before.

“What business do you have in my house?”