It was late November, just past midnight, when Luna first walked into the fluorescent-lit hallway of a 24-hour self-storage facility in the industrial part of town. She had rented unit 47 online that afternoon, sight unseen, after a cryptic email from someone claiming to be a childhood friend she hadn't spoken to in fifteen years. The concrete floor was damp, and the air smelled of rust and old cardboard. As she approached the orange roll-up door—number 47—she heard a faint scraping sound from inside, like fingernails on corrugated metal. The lock was already on the latch, a heavy brass padlock she hadn't bought. This is the story of that night, and the nights that followed, and the thing she found waiting behind the door.
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