Catscratch

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.

He stumbled back. The basement door swung shut on its own. The deadbolt clicked.

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. Catscratch

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.

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.” He pressed his ear to the cold wood

“Who’s there?” Leo whispered.

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. Scratch had no voice

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.