It was almost midnight when Claire heard the scratching again.
A faint, rhythmic noise — like nails dragging across the old wooden floor.
She sat up in bed, her breath fogging the cold air of the old house. The wind outside howled through the trees, shaking the shutters. She’d been living here for barely a month, but already the isolation was starting to eat at her.
“Just the pipes,” she muttered. “Old house, old sounds.”
Still, the noise grew louder.
Then came a low growl.
Claire froze. She turned toward the end of the hallway, where the faint outline of a cat appeared in the moonlight — sleek, dark, and still as stone. Its eyes gleamed like two gold coins.
“Oh,” she exhaled, laughing nervously. “You must be the neighbor’s cat.”
The cat tilted its head but didn’t move.
“Hey there, buddy,” she said softly, crouching down. “You lost?”
It didn’t blink. It didn’t purr.
Instead, it growled again.
Something about that sound — that deep, guttural rumble — made her step back. And then she saw it: streaks of mud—or maybe something darker—smeared along its fur.
She reached for her phone, fumbling to turn on the flashlight. When the light hit the cat, it lunged.
Claire screamed, stumbling backward as claws slashed across her forearm. She fell hard onto the floor, her phone clattering away. The cat hissed and darted toward her again, eyes glowing like fire in the dark.
She kicked out, connecting with its side. The animal yowled and vanished into the shadows.
For a moment, everything went still again.
Her heart pounded. Blood trickled down her arm.
Then, from the darkness — a sound like whispering.
But not quite.
It was purring.
Except it came from inside the walls.
Claire staggered to her feet and grabbed a flashlight from the table. She followed the sound to the living room, where an old portrait hung above the fireplace — a faded painting of a woman with a black cat on her lap.
The same golden eyes.
The same unsettling stare.
She reached out to touch the frame — and the purring stopped.
The silence was deafening.
Then, from behind the painting, came a single, sharp scratch.
Claire stepped back. “No,” she whispered. “No, no, no—”
The portrait fell. Dust exploded into the air, revealing a hidden door in the wall.
It creaked open on its own.
Inside, the smell hit her — thick, rotting, suffocating. Old fur. Decay.
She shone the flashlight inside and saw the impossible: dozens of cat collars, lined up neatly on hooks… and the skeletal remains of small animals piled in the corner.
Her stomach turned.
A shadow moved behind her. She spun around — too late.
The cat was there again, standing on the table, tail flicking. But now it wasn’t alone. Behind it, one by one, glowing eyes began to appear in the dark. Dozens of them.
Her flashlight flickered.
She screamed.
And then the lights went out.
When the police found her the next morning, the house was silent. The front door stood wide open, the fireplace cold.
On the wall, where the painting had been, they found fresh claw marks — deep, deliberate scratches forming a single word: