You decide you’re better off against the flying demon. You turn around for one last peek down the hall and see a large black hand with elongated fingers snake out from the corner. Its nails are bone-white razors. They dig into the wall, drawing deep crevices into the plaster. A deep voice rumbles over you, a mixture of a growl and a low hum. The ancient words cause the hair on the back of your neck to stand on end.