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.

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. Catscratch

And sitting on the kitchen counter, cleaning one gray paw with deliberate slowness, was Scratch. The cat yawned, revealing a mouth full of needles, and for the first time, Leo saw the truth in those yellow eyes: I was keeping it in. You let it out. And then, from the dark, two yellow eyes opened

Thrrrp-scrape. Thrrrp-scrape. Leo. Leo. Let us in. They rose from the bottom step—not walking, but

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.

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

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.