Catscratch

And then, from the dark, two yellow eyes opened. Not Scratch’s eyes. These were larger, wider, set too far apart. They rose from the bottom step—not walking, but unfolding , a shape that bent where nothing should bend.

Leo tried to scream, but something soft and firm pressed against his mouth. A paw? A hand? No—a scratch . Three shallow lines of fire across his lips. Catscratch

Not the gentle pad of a paw on wood. Not the soft scrape of claws on a rug. This was a slow, deliberate thrrrp-scrape … thrrrp-scrape … coming from the other side of the basement door. And then, from the dark, two yellow eyes opened

Leo never opened the basement door again. But every night at three in the morning, he puts out a bowl of milk for the gray cat. And every morning, the milk is gone, and there are fresh claw marks on the basement door—but only on the side where the dark can’t reach. They rose from the bottom step—not walking, but

He pressed his ear to the cold wood. The voice was soft, dry, like paper being torn. It was not Scratch’s voice. Scratch had no voice. Scratch only had claws.

The scratching resumed. But this time, it was inside the walls. All of them. All at once.

He stumbled back. The basement door swung shut on its own. The deadbolt clicked.