There was only one rule:

The rule had been clear, etched into the cracked wood of the cabin’s entrance, but every night, the scratching from the other side grew louder, more desperate. No one ever explained why the door had to stay shut; they only warned of the consequences.

Evelyn paced in front of it, the lantern in her hand flickering. The scratching stopped, and in the silence that followed, she heard it—her mother's voice.

“Evelyn, sweetie, please let me in. It’s so cold out here.”

Her heart raced. It sounded just like her mother, who had vanished years ago. Could she have survived? But Evelyn remembered the tales: things on the other side of the door could mimic the voices of loved ones. Still, the voice was so familiar, so comforting.

She stepped closer.

"Evelyn, it’s me. Please."

Tears welled in her eyes. She had spent years searching for her mother. How could she turn away now? Her trembling hand touched the doorknob. Cold metal sent a shiver down her spine.

Just one peek.

She turned the knob slowly. The door creaked open an inch. The voice stopped. Darkness greeted her, thick and unnatural. And then, from the blackness, something slithered—something cold, something wrong.

The door slammed shut on its own, but not before Evelyn realized the rule was not to protect her from what was outside. It was to keep what was inside from escaping.

It was too late. She had opened the door.