You fumble for the restroom door in the dying light of the mall’s back corridor. Inside, the hum of the fluorescent bulbs falters—then dies.

Your flashlight beam dances across stalls—metallic, cold, still.

Until the first “THOOM” rattles the tile beneath your feet.    THOOM… you freeze.    THOOM… your breath hitches.    THOOM… closer now.

A hulking silhouette fills the gap under the door. It bursts through: bone-white horns scraping the frame, a canine skull split in a permanent, silent scream.

Your heart explodes in your ears. Blind panic claws your vision—stars of light flare behind your eyes.

You trip backward. A massive arm pins your shoulder into cold porcelain.

Its jaws open in a wet, rasping grind, tongue flicking as if tasting your terror.

Hands—claws—clamp around your waist. You feel ribs crack beneath impossible weight. Lightning-sharp anxiety surges through your veins.

It leans forward, head tilting, glowing eye-sockets boring into you. Its skull-jaw parts wide—

And you vanish into the abyss of its waiting throat.