Catscratch <Ultra HD>

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

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.

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

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.

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. Thrrrp-scrape

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

The scratching stopped. A long pause. Then a single, clear word: “Company.” Then a single

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.