But tonight, the scratching was relentless. It wasn’t just annoying. It was inviting . A rasping whisper between the scrapes: “Leo… Leo… let me out.”
The scratching stopped. A long pause. Then a single, clear word: “Company.”
Leo’s hand moved to the deadbolt before his brain could catch up. The lock turned with a heavy clunk . He pulled the door open. Catscratch
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.
Leo lived alone in his grandmother’s old farmhouse, a creaking relic at the end of a gravel road. The only thing he’d inherited along with the house was a single gray cat, whom he’d reluctantly named Scratch. Scratch was not a nice cat. He didn’t purr. He didn’t knead. He watched. Always from the corner of a room, yellow eyes half-lidded, tail flicking like a metronome counting down to something. But tonight, the scratching was relentless
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.
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. A rasping whisper between the scrapes: “Leo… Leo…
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.
But tonight, the scratching was relentless. It wasn’t just annoying. It was inviting . A rasping whisper between the scrapes: “Leo… Leo… let me out.”
The scratching stopped. A long pause. Then a single, clear word: “Company.”
Leo’s hand moved to the deadbolt before his brain could catch up. The lock turned with a heavy clunk . He pulled the door open.
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.
Leo lived alone in his grandmother’s old farmhouse, a creaking relic at the end of a gravel road. The only thing he’d inherited along with the house was a single gray cat, whom he’d reluctantly named Scratch. Scratch was not a nice cat. He didn’t purr. He didn’t knead. He watched. Always from the corner of a room, yellow eyes half-lidded, tail flicking like a metronome counting down to something.
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.
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.
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.
