The basement had been off-limits since the day Leo moved in. Grandma’s final note, taped to the door, read: “Leo, whatever you do, do not open this door. Feed the cat. Trust the cat.”
He stumbled back. The basement door swung shut on its own. The deadbolt clicked.
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 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.
Leo looked at Scratch. Scratch blinked slowly—once, twice—and then hopped down, padded to the basement door, and sat directly in front of it. Guarding. Waiting.
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. The basement had been off-limits since the day Leo moved in
Thrrrp-scrape. Thrrrp-scrape. Leo. Leo. Let us in.
It was three in the morning when the scratching started.
The scratching resumed. But this time, it was inside the walls. All of them. All at once. Trust the cat
The basement stairs descended into perfect, absolute black. No smell of damp earth or old preserves. Just a stillness that felt hungry.
“Who’s there?” Leo whispered.