Chapter 3 - The Frequency of the Woods
The creature on the floor lunged with blinding speed.
Sarah reacted on pure instinct, kicking out her right boot and catching the writhing entity squarely in its midsection. It emitted a high-pitched, metallic shriek—like a violin string snapping under maximum tension—and slammed hard against the stone hearth. But it didn't shatter or bleed; it liquefied momentarily, spreading into a thin, oily puddle before coalescing back into its serpentine form within the blink of an eye.
"Useless," Thomas remarked coolly, his tone conversational, as if they were discussing the weather rather than a life-or-death struggle. He didn't make a move to attack her directly; instead, he walked past her with eerie grace, his hand resting casually on the heavy wooden dining table. "Violence is a byproduct of static, Sarah. Once you tune in, you realize how primitive anger is."
"Stay back, Thomas!" Sarah screamed, her voice cracking as she backed into the corner near the kitchen counter. Her hand swept blindly across the surface until her fingers closed around the cold, reassuring handle of a heavy cast-iron skillet.
She gripped the iron handle so hard her knuckles turned white, her stance wide and defensive. But Thomas wasn't looking at her. His gaze was fixed entirely on the high, small window overlooking the front porch.
Outside, in the suffocating stillness of the dead night, something shifted.
At first, it was just a shadow—a massive, undulating silhouette pressing against the thick glass panes of the window. Then came the sound. It wasn't the roar of wind or the crash of thunder, but a low, subterranean hum, vibrating at a frequency so deep that Sarah felt her teeth ache and her inner ears throb in agonizing resonance.
Hummmmmmmmmm.
It was the exact same pitch as the parasite writhing on the floorboards.
The creature on the floor responded immediately, arching its back and emitting a series of rapid, clicking pulses that echoed through the room like Morse code. From the front porch came a heavy, rhythmic thud—thud, thud, thud—as something large and heavy stepped onto the wooden deck.
"They're gathering," Thomas whispered, his eyes glazed over with a fanatical, rapturous glow. He reached up and unlatched the heavy wooden window, pushing it open wide to the damp, freezing night air.
No wind rushed in. The air outside was dead, stagnant, and thick with the metallic stench of ozone and damp earth. But through the open window came a chorus of voices—hundreds of them, overlapping, whispering in unison from the surrounding treeline.
May you like
“...let us in… the channel is open… let us in…”
Sarah’s heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird. She stared from the open window back to Thomas, whose expression was one of absolute, terrifying peace. The realization hit her with sickening clarity: Thomas wasn't a victim anymore. He was a beacon. And the signal was broadcasting loud and clear.
