The Scraping Below

Beneath the city, tunnels no map ever marks twist like veins. Commuters whisper

about the scraping—metal on stone—echoing up from the dark. They say it follows you,

matching your steps. One man returned, trembling, muttering about eyes like lanterns

and mouths full of too many teeth. Now, every night, the power flickers.

The scraping grows louder. And when you lean close to the drain to listen,

something whispers your name… and breathes back.