I should have been studying. Advanced Organic Chemistry waited for no one, and Professor Hartwell's exam was legendary for reducing grown students to tears. Instead, I was sprawled on our ancient sofa, laptop balanced on my chest, half-watching Netflix and half-reviewing molecular structures.
The flat was unusually quiet. Marcus typically left for work around sunset, but his bedroom door had remained stubbornly closed all evening. I'd knocked once around nine, wondering if he was feeling unwell, but had gotten only a muffled grunt in response.
Around eleven, I'd heard the first crash.
It sounded like someone had knocked over a chair, followed by what could only be described as aggressive rummaging. Then came the muttering, low and indistinct, punctuated by occasional frustrated growls.
I'd paused my show, listening. Marcus had always been the picture of consideration. He moved through the flat like he was afraid of disturbing the dust. This sudden symphony of chaos was completely out of character.
Another crash, louder this time, followed by what sounded distinctly like ripping fabric.
"Marcus?" I'd called out. "Everything alright?"
The noise had stopped abruptly, replaced by a silence so complete I could hear my own heartbeat. Then, after a long moment, a voice that sounded like Marcus but somehow rougher around the edges: "Fine! Just... reorganizing!"
More crashing. Something that sounded like books hitting the floor. Then a noise I couldn't quite place, something between a sigh and a whine.
I'd gone back to my laptop, but concentration was impossible. The sounds from Marcus's room had continued, a bizarre mixture of human activity and something that made the hair on the back of my neck stand up. Twice, I could have sworn I heard howling, but so brief and muffled that I'd convinced myself it was just the wind.
Around midnight, everything had gone quiet.
I'd finally managed to refocus on my chemistry notes when the scratching started.
It began softly, almost tentatively. A rhythmic scraping against Marcus's bedroom door, like someone dragging their fingernails across wood. Then it had grown more insistent, more desperate. Scratch, scratch, scratch. Pause. Scratch, scratch, scratch.
The sound had sent shivers down my spine in a way I couldn't explain. It wasn't random. There was intelligence behind it, purpose. Like someone trying to communicate through morse code they'd forgotten how to use properly.
I'd crept to Marcus's door, pressing my ear against the wood. The scratching had stopped immediately, replaced by heavy breathing that didn't sound quite human. Too deep, too rough.
"Marcus? Do you need help?"
A whimper. Definitely a whimper. Then shuffling footsteps moving away from the door.
I'd spent the rest of the night staring at the ceiling, jumping at every small sound. Around five AM, I'd finally drifted off to an uneasy sleep filled with dreams of golden eyes and teeth too sharp for any human mouth.
When I'd woken around noon, Marcus was gone. His bedroom door stood open, revealing what looked like the aftermath of a tornado. Clothes scattered everywhere, books pulled from shelves, his mattress askew. And on the inside of his door, four parallel scratches gouged deep into the wood.
I'd stared at those scratches for a long time, my mind refusing to process what I was seeing. They were too deep for fingernails, too uniform. And they started about seven feet off the ground.
That evening, Marcus had returned looking haggard and sheepish, sporting a fresh bandage on his left hand.
"Rough night at work," he'd explained when he'd caught me staring. "Had a bit of an accident."
I'd nodded, not trusting my voice. The scratches on his door seemed to mock me from across the room.
"Listen, Jamie," he'd continued, running his uninjured hand through his already disheveled hair. "I might be a bit... restless... around the full moon. Work schedules, you know? Disrupts the sleep cycle."
"Right," I'd managed. "The full moon."
"If you hear any noise next month, just... ignore it, yeah? I'll try to keep it down, but sometimes..."
He'd trailed off, shrugging helplessly. In the afternoon light streaming through our windows, he'd looked perfectly normal. Just a tired guy in his twenties with unfortunate timing and a demanding job.
But I couldn't stop staring at the bandage on his hand, or thinking about those scratches on his door.
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