Grasping tendrils lash out too late, Peter slipping easily past the gauntlet of reaching tentacles, though one brushes against his shoulder as he runs. The candle's flame flickers wildly but does not go out, and casts its light on the room on the other side of the door.

An emaciated figure crouches in the middle of an empty room, its back turned toward Peter, hunched over something unseen. Gnawing and scraping noises accompany its jerky movements, and something thick and wet spatters on the floor at its feet.

Fragile limbs unfold as it stiffens and turns, looking over its shoulder, empty eye sockets burning with the same purple flame held cradled against Peter's chest. Dark red liquid streaks down its chin, an unrecognizable heap of meat in its clutches.