The television flickers, though no one touched the remote. Static hisses softly, like whispers from behind a closed door. The room dims unnaturally, shadows stretching long across the floor. A chill creeps in—not from the air conditioner, but from something older, colder. The screen pulses once. Then again. And then she appears. A well. Deep, ancient, moss-covered. The camera pans upward, slowly, agonizingly slow. A pale hand grips the edge. Fingernails cracked. Skin bloated and gray. She climbs. Her hair is a curtain of black, slick and heavy, hiding her face. Her white dress clings to her like wet cloth, stained with the earth of her grave. She moves with jerks, like a puppet pulled by invisible strings. The person watching stumbles back, heart hammering. But the screen doesn’t stop. She steps out of the well. Then—impossibly—out of the screen. Water pools on the floor. The static grows louder. Her head tilts, just slightly, and from beneath the veil of hair, a single eye gleams. Not angry. Not sad. Just inevitable. Seven days.