The whisper slides through the walls, slipping beneath the door like curling fingers. It doesn’t sound human. Not quite. "Where are you?" The bed feels colder. The air heavier. The resident presses themselves against the mattress, muscles locked, refusing to move. If they don’t acknowledge it, maybe it won’t find them. But the voice doesn’t need an answer. It already knows. The silence stretches, thick and suffocating. And then— "Found you."