Nothing was there. And this relieved Mercy, who always worried about things like that.

She was, as her friends and family would so lovingly murmur, weak. A maladaptive screamer by trade. Ever subjected to a whole buffet of fears better left forgotten in adulthood.

Feet were always tucked beneath wooly blankets. Couldn’t risk exposing an ankle. That would tease the claws or tendrils no doubt unfurling somewhere close by. And teasing claws or tendrils could summon a quick tug, being dragged down, down, down into that deep, devious darkness. Hell sweet hell.

Nor did Mercy ever forget to close her closet door, or leave the dumb little light on. She wasn’t so stupid. Quite the opposite. Fear made her more aware of each creak and groan from errant floorboards, each scratch within the walls. Nothing ever remained unknown.

But the night in question. Just another June night, hot; overworking the air conditioner. Like all the other nights, countless, that had strummed poor Mercy since childhood. The prerequisite rituals were carried out with precision, and everything had been perfectly nerve wracking. She’d settled down for what passed for sleep. Her regularly scheduled nightmares.

Until…

… Mercy continued to stare.

Stare at the doorway, her bedroom doorway.

Nothing was there.

Something was there, of course, just… not where she was looking.