To anyone else, this was a routine of respect. To Yakov, it was a confrontation.
As the clock struck midnight, the ambient sounds of Brooklyn began to fade, replaced by a low, rhythmic scratching coming from the walls. Yakov gripped his prayer book, his fingers tracing the embossed Hebrew letters. He wasn't sure if he was reading to protect the dead man’s soul or to anchor his own.
He closed his eyes and began to recite the Shema , not as a practiced ritual, but as a roar against the silence.
The shroud shifted. Only slightly—a ripple in the fabric near the chest. Yakov stood up, his chair scraping harshly against the floorboards. He remembered the stories of the , a malevolent spirit that feeds on the grief of the broken.