The Hungry Star

The storm returned at dawn, howling with renewed vengeance. Rain lashed the mansion's windows like shrapnel, and thunder shook the walls, dislodging clots of dust from the ceiling. Clara sat cross-legged on the parlor floor, pressing a damp cloth to Sarid's throat where the dress's phantom grip had left lurid bruises. His skin was fever-hot, his breaths shallow.

"We need to try the exits again," he croaked, though neither moved.

The attic key burned in Clara's pocket. She'd pried it from the lock after dragging Sarid downstairs, its metal unnaturally cold. Now, the house felt different—hungrier. The portrait's eyes glinted from across the foyer, tracking their every flinch.

A static crackle cut through the storm's din.

Clara stiffened. "Hear that?"

Sarid tilted his head. "Radio interference."

It came from the corner of the parlor, where an ornate cabinet radio sat beneath a moth-eaten shroud. Clara hadn't noticed it before. The wood was polished walnut, its dials rusted, the speaker cloth stained. Yet as they watched, the tuner knob twitched.

Crackle-pop.

Sarid stood, wincing. "Probably picking up a weather band. Storms mess with signals."

"In a house with no power?" Clara whispered.

The radio hummed to life.

A tinny voice cut through the static, sharp with vintage cadence: "—unseasonable weather patterns attributed to the celestial anomaly known colloquially as 'the hungry star.' Astronomers advise—"

Sarid froze. "That's… a 1920s broadcast. I've heard recordings. The accent, the phrasing—"

"—constabulary warns residents to avoid travel until the convergence passes. Recall the tragic events of 1892, when—"

The voice dissolved into white noise. Clara lunged for the dial, but the knob spun wildly under her fingers. The radio screeched, a sound like nails on slate, before settling on a mournful cello solo.

"Convergence," Clara echoed. "Elias's journal mentioned a 'cycle.' What if the house's power is tied to this… star?"

Sarid snorted. "Astronomy doesn't explain ghosts."

A flash of lightning illuminated the room. In the split-second glare, Clara saw them—figures crowding the parlor's edges, translucent and staring. A woman in a bloodied nightgown. A child clutching a charred doll. The hanged woman from her dream, swaying.

She gasped. The vision vanished.

"Clara?"

"The broadcast isn't a recording," she said, backing away. "It's a warning. From the past."

The radio hissed. "—Clara. Sarid."

Their names slithered from the speaker, warped and guttural.

Sarid recoiled. "Okay. New plan: we smash it."

He grabbed a fire poker, but Clara seized his arm. "Wait. It's trying to tell us something."

The dial spun again, landing on a preacher's booming sermon: "—the star is a false idol! Its hunger consumes virtue, twists souls into sustenance for the abyss—"

A deafening thunderclap drowned him out. The mansion shuddered, walls groaning as if strained by an unseen weight. Plaster rained from the ceiling.

"The house can't hold it back," Clara realized. "The storm, the star—they're tearing something open."

Sarid stared at her. "Hold what back?"

The radio answered, switching to a child's singsong voice: "Nocturne's hour approaches. The feast begins!"

The parlor lights—dead since their arrival—flickered once, twice, then blazed to life. Clara cried out, shielding her eyes. When she lowered her arm, the room had changed.

The walls were pristine, the furniture opulent. A clock on the mantle ticked backward. And the portrait—the portrait now showed Elias standing beside a woman in a blue silk dress, her neck ringed with bruises.

"Clara." Sarid's voice trembled. He pointed at the window.

The storm clouds had parted. In the sliver of violet sky, a star pulsed—crimson and grotesquely large, its light seeping through the glass like liquid. Where it touched the floorboards, the wood blackened and curled.

"The more you see, the more it sees you," the radio intoned.

Sarid gripped Clara's hand, his bravado crumbling. "What do we do?"

The star's light slid toward them, voracious. Clara yanked him into the hall as it scorched the parlor rug. They ran, the mansion shifting around them—doors vanishing, walls bending. The radio's voice pursued, amplified to a deafening roar:

"RUN, LITTLE LAMB. RUN UNTIL THE STAR DEVOURS YOUR SHADOW—"

They skidded into the foyer. The front door stood open, the storm raging beyond. Clara hesitated, remembering the mist that had trapped them before.

"No choice," Sarid panted.

They plunged into the tempest—and this time, the world held. Rain needled their skin. The star's baleful glow tinged the downpour bloody.

"The woods!" Clara shouted.

But the trees were gone. In their place stood a graveyard of headstones, each etched with a name they knew:

CLARA

SARID

ELIAS

ELEANOR

Beneath their feet, the ground quaked. Clara stumbled, falling against a tombstone. Its dates read: Born 1991. Died Tonight.

Sarid hauled her up as the star's light surged, igniting the graves. The radio's laughter chased them back to the mansion's steps.

The door slammed shut as they crossed the threshold.

In the parlor, the radio spat one final warning:

"You cannot outrun a shadow. You are the feast."

Then the lights died, and the hungry star's eye winked out.