Decaying leaves flutter on a gentle breeze just outside the front window of a thatched cottage on the edge of the countryside. The grey clouds sail overhead, threatening rain, but none yet comes. Inside the cottage, a family sits quietly, watching from behind the pane.
The father turns his head toward a scratching sound that seems to be coming from the door. It’s probably nothing. It must just be a tree branch in the wind. But just then: again. Louder. More purposeful.
No longer just a soft scratching, but a growing cacophony; scratching, grunting, stomping. The family huddles together against the far wall as the sounds reach a terrifying crescendo.