Something is lurking, hostile and unbreathing, an impassive shadow with a living mouth. No wind in the crack, no creaking wood; the same hunger of the shadow in your dream saw you die.
The sound of shattering glass along the ceiling, shards of ash and a dance of steel. A yawn at the neck, a breath of lime and long fingers poised to push open the door.
Do not close your eyes, for that is where it dwelt, where fear became flesh and your soul died. Do not seek the day anymore, for now it is always night.
Now you are the robe of that which never fears, the nocturnal essence of blood from the shadows that breathe.