The autumn was already well underway when you moved into the old house. Rain lingered in the air for days, damp leaves gathered on the steps, and as soon as darkness fell, the old walls creaked and shifted.

At least, that was what you told yourself on the first night.

The sound came from the basement.

Metal scraped across concrete. Slowly, heavily, as though someone were dragging a chain across the floor. Then came a deep groan. Then silence again.

The next morning, you find nothing unusual down there—except for a pile of old snow chains. They lie rusting in a corner and are so heavy that you cannot move them an inch.

An old lantern sits on a dusty shelf.

When you pick it up, something rustles inside. Behind the glass is a yellowed piece of paper, folded several times.

It reads:

When leaves descend and nights grow long,
and cold winds haunt the walls with song,
seek where iron binds the shade,
and where a nameless thing was made.

Bring light to where the darkness dwells,
but fear the truth its brightness tells.
Three signs lie hidden under chains,
the fourth with one who mute remains.

Join them together. Call him home.
Then breaks the bond beneath the stone.
But know: whoever frees the fright,
sets him loose beyond the night.

On the second night, the rattling begins again.