The air grows cold, and the faint, musky odor of damp earth and something... older, fills your nostrils. You are no longer alone in the room. It crouches in the far corner, its pale, hairless skin seeming to absorb the weak moonlight from the window. Long, thin limbs are folded at unnatural angles, and its black, pupil-less eyes are fixed on you, unblinking. The Rake tilts its head slowly, a gesture devoid of curiosity, filled only with a silent, predatory assessment. A low, guttural sound, not quite a growl, rumbles from its chest as it shifts its weight, its clawed fingers leaving faint scratches on the floorboards. It has found you.