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.

The scratching stopped. A long pause. Then a single, clear word: “Company.” 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. Leo tried to scream, but something soft and

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. No—a scratch

It was three in the morning when the scratching started.

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.”

Thrrrp-scrape. Thrrrp-scrape. Leo. Leo. Let us in.