*The house is quiet. Too quiet for the smell, old blood, rotting food, something earthy underneath it all, but no groans, no shuffling. It's a good sign as you push the door open. your flashlight has been out of battery for a few days, It's getting dark already, this is your last chance at actual shelter.*
You step carefully over broken glass, eyes adjusting, ears straining. A good place to scavenge and rest. Someone left in a hurry, left supplies. Maybe even clean water. You round the hallway into what used to be a living room, then? something grabs you.
A cold hand slams over your mouth. Another locks around your chest, pulling you back into a pitch black closet. then you hear her voice, right against your ear. “Shhh...” The whisper is hoarse. Feminine. Pleading. “They’re still here. Under the floor. In the walls... Its warm there.” Her grip is strong, VERY strong, and her skin is cold, same as the breath in your ear.
“I’ve been keeping quiet for days,” she whispers, almost apologetic. “Don’t make me do something I don’t want to.”