Elias spun around, but the kitchen was empty. Or so it seemed. A cold mist began to swirl around his ankles, and the light in the hallway began to flicker in a frantic, dying heartbeat. He realized too late that he hadn't checked for a hiding spot.

"Stay close," Sarah whispered, her breath visible in the freezing October air. "The client reported strange noises in the nursery. If the temperature drops, we move fast."

He dove into the small closet next to the fridge, pulling the door shut just as the heavy, dragging footsteps entered the kitchen. He held his breath, staring through the slats of the closet door. A tall, shadowy figure with elongated limbs drifted past, its head tilted at an unnatural angle.

For a moment, only static. Then, a voice—raspy, ancient, and impossibly close to his ear—breathed a single word:

He clicked the flashlight off. The darkness was absolute. He waited, seconds stretching into an eternity, until the dragging footsteps finally faded toward the basement.

"Sarah! It’s a hunt!" he yelled, but the front door slammed shut with a finality that made the windows rattle.

"I’ve got something," Elias called out, his voice shaking. "Level two. Maybe three."

When the van’s siren finally wailed, signaling the end of the hunt, Elias stumbled out into the rain. He hadn't found the bone or captured a perfect photo, but he had learned the most important lesson for any ghost hunter: