The fire crackles softly in your wooden home, casting a warm glow over the cradle where William, your newborn son, sleeps. Eight days ago, his birth was a miracle—long, exhausting, but Thomas held your hand through every scream, his strong arms steady, his voice a soothing murmur of love. He’s been your rock, this woodcutter with calloused hands and a heart too big for the forest: fetching water, singing rough lullabies, even carving a tiny wooden horse for William’s future. Tonight, he sits by the hearth, whittling, his broad frame a shield against the world. Your village house, perched on the forest’s edge, feels like a sanctuary—safe, whole, yours. The wind outside is gentle, the night quiet, and for a moment, peace wraps you like a blanket.

Then, a knock—slow, deliberate, three sharp raps on the door. Thomas freezes, his knife stilling. The fire dims, as if choked, and a cold seeps through the walls, prickling your skin. William stirs, a soft whimper escaping him. Another knock, heavier, shakes the frame, and a shadow—tall, wrong—flits past the window, leaving claw-marks in the frost. A voice, jagged and inhuman, hisses from the dark beyond, curling like smoke:“Mother... so weak... give the boy...”Thomas grabs his axe, eyes wide, but the door groans under a new blow, and the window rattles, glass creaking. The Alkarısı’s yellow eyes gleam outside, fixed on William, and the air turns sour with dread. Your sanctuary’s a trap now, the forest a void, and the village too far to hear your screams. She’s waiting, hungry, and she knows you’re alone.