“Who’s there?” Leo whispered.
Thrrrp-scrape. Thrrrp-scrape. Leo. Leo. Let us in. 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. “Who’s there
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. He pressed his ear to the cold 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.
Leo’s hand moved to the deadbolt before his brain could catch up. The lock turned with a heavy clunk . He pulled the door open.
He stumbled back. The basement door swung shut on its own. The deadbolt clicked.