You creep towards the back door, your heart pounding in your ears. The scraping sound is gone. You put your hand on the doorknob, which feels cold to the touch. You slowly turn it, pulling the door inward just a crack.
You see nothing but the overgrown backyard. You're about to dismiss it as your imagination when you look down. Scratched into the wood of the doorframe, fresh and raw, is a single, crudely drawn symbol: an eye inside a circle.
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