Soft daylight spilled through the frosted bathroom window. Steam hovered in the air like a thin veil. She lay back in the bubble bath, eyes closed, breathing slow, letting the warmth sink into her skin. The house was silent. Peaceful.

Then—

The dripping stopped.

The faucet that had been ticking all night suddenly fell silent. No echo. No final drop.

Just stillness.

The camera would have snap-zoomed to her faint smile — unaware, relaxed.

And then came the scratching.

Soft. Almost polite. Like fingernails brushing against porcelain.

She didn’t open her eyes at first. Old houses make sounds, she told herself. Pipes shift. Wood settles.

Scratch.

Longer this time.

Her eyelids slowly lifted.

The ambient sounds sharpened — faint water movement, a distant creak from somewhere deep in the house, a subtle ticking that didn’t belong to any clock she owned.

Her breathing changed.

The camera would pan downward toward the edge of the tub.

Tiny dark shapes were forming along the porcelain rim.

At first they looked like shadows. Just distortions in the light.

But shadows don’t move against the light.

“…what is that?” she whispered, barely audible.

The shapes multiplied.

Close-up of the floor — something spreading outward in thin, unnatural lines. Not crawling. Not walking.

Seeping.

Like ink bleeding through cracks that shouldn’t exist.

The scratching grew louder.

Not from the tub.

From underneath it.

Her smile vanished completely.

Her fingers tightened around the edge of the bath.

The water around her ankles felt colder now.

Something brushed her foot beneath the bubbles.

Not a pipe.

Not a current.

A touch.

Her expression shifted from relaxed… to frozen.

And just before she could scream—

The bubbles in front of her began to sink inward, as if something beneath the surface had taken a breath.

Cut.