The noise ceased when Wally spoke the first time, then repeated in a faint echo of itself around the perimeter of the attic, the source always in the unlit part of the room until -- with a full shine around the space -- it was coming from all directions, fainter and louder and at different depths. The cobwebs fluttered lightly and then rent to shreds as a sudden gust of wind tore through the attic, slamming the trapdoor shut with a bang that echoed through the musty space. A fainter smash echoed it: the closet door below whipping shut in turn.

Beneath the whoosh of air was the rattle, louder now and still encroaching from all directions without any sign of source. The shadows lengthened much as they had downstairs, a spill of darkness hiding the trapdoor from sight in a second before continuing in Wally's direction, only the faintest gleam of leftover daylight indicating where the exit was.

The rest of the shadows grew and -- as they expanded, insidious and endless -- they shifted, until rather than lying flat against the walls and the floor they moved like living things across surfaces. Wherever Wally moved or looked, they would be unavoidable, reaching toward him until tendrils touched his feet and knees and any other part of him in contact with the floor.

It was human hair, thick and black and immeasurably strong, coiling around his limbs and seeking to trap him even as the guttural croak broadened and grew louder still -- and then, from amidst the dark strands clutching and climbing over spandex-covered flesh, a single hand reached out and grabbed onto Wally's bicep. Pale enough that even in the weak light it was bright, blued at each fingertip, the hand gripped with enough strength to be painful.

Blackish blood oozed sluggishly out from underneath the fingernails, some torn and partially peeled back from their beds.