He stumbled back. The basement door swung shut on its own. The deadbolt clicked.
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. 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 stumbled back
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.” Not the gentle pad of a paw on wood
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.