Catscratch

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.

He’d followed the first instruction for six months. The second was harder—Scratch seemed to feed himself, returning each dawn with a full belly and a faint, coppery smell on his breath.

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. Catscratch

It was three in the morning when the scratching started.

The basement stairs descended into perfect, absolute black. No smell of damp earth or old preserves. Just a stillness that felt hungry. Leo lived alone in his grandmother’s old farmhouse,

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.

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. He didn’t purr

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

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.”