Excerpt of Immortal Eclipse by Sherry Soule

At the first thump, I finger the handle of the Glock 19 under my pillow. A girl living alone in New York must be careful, even in the Upper East Side. My fingers are clumsy and moist as I slide the safety off, the cold metal heavy in my hand.

I sit up slowly, listening hard, my body tense. An eerie sensation batters my senses, like a sixth sense awakening, blooming, and soaking through my bones. As the distinctive reaction intensifies, the pulsing beat of urgency clears my head, pouring strength into my taut muscles. I try to swallow, but the lump of dread in my throat won't let me.

This isn't the first time I've felt such a sensation, but right now it's off the charts. My weird intuition often shows up right before I bump into an old friend, hear a knock on my door or a phone ringing, or worse, when I'm about to find myself knee–deep in shit. My own personal warning device.

The thumping noise is replaced by a scratching on the other side of my apartment, sounding like fingernails grating down a chalkboard.

I fumble to switch on the bedside lamp, and soft white light illuminates the room. Staggering to my feet, I stare at the closed bedroom door.

Scrape, scrape, scrape.

Hunching my shoulders, I take a tentative step toward the door. The hardwood floor is icy, and gooseflesh rises stiff and fast on my arms. A board groans sharply under my weight. So much for being quiet.

Scrape, scrape, scrape.

The blinds are open, making me feel vulnerable, naked. Beyond the street lamps, lights blaze from towering skyscrapers and a sharp wind bends the trees. Even the brownstone is chattering, grunting and whining against the biting winds of approaching winter.

Scrape, scrape, scrape.

The hiss of chilling menace teases my spine as I force myself to move. I pop the clip out of the gun and check it. Still loaded. I muster up some courage. Whoever's out there is messin' with the wrong chick. I swallow hard and ease forward, my bare feet shuffling closer to the door. I press my ear to the wood, motionless, listening.

Scrape, scrape, scrape.

Then a new sound—this time closer. Something's at the window. Tapping. Pinging. The fluttering of wings. The noise jangles my senses. Illuminated by a full moon, dozens of huge, furry black moths dive–bomb the glass, as if they're on a kamikaze mission.

Moths in New York in October? Super weird.

Goose bumps travel up and down my arms. My legs weaken.

A draft moves through the room, but not a cold one from outside. It resembles sticky breath laden with foul odors, close and oppressive. That weird psychic sensation hits hard again, and suddenly it feels like I've shut myself in a dark closet with a hundred vipers.

Scrape, scrape, scrape.

I freeze in place; the big muscles in my thighs wobble as though I just ran a marathon. The little hairs on my neck prickle as I wait for the noise to repeat, my body alive and alert to every sound.