Room for Rent

Room for Rent

When Kayla saw the ad, it felt like a miracle.

"Room for Rent – $250/month. No deposit. All utilities included. Quiet area. Must love cats."

After losing her job and barely scraping by in a run-down motel, Kayla jumped at the chance. She replied, met the owner—an older woman named Miriam—and moved in that evening.

The house was old but clean, tucked on a quiet street near the edge of town. Miriam had kind eyes, though her smile didn’t quite reach them. And she had one rule:

“Don’t go in the basement. The cat doesn’t like it.”

Kayla blinked. “You mean your cat?”

Miriam just smiled. “You’ll see.”

Sure enough, there was a cat—black as coal, with yellow eyes that seemed far too intelligent. It appeared and disappeared without a sound, watching Kayla from doorways or perched on the stairs. She tried to win it over with treats, but it never came close. Never blinked.

Just stared.

Kayla’s room was small but cozy. The house stayed quiet, and Miriam kept to herself, often retreating into her room after dinner.

But something about the place felt… off.

The second night, Kayla heard noises beneath the floor—low thuds and dragging sounds, like furniture being moved. She asked Miriam about it over breakfast.

“Oh, that’s just the cat,” she said, sipping tea.

“In the basement?”

“Yes,” Miriam said, smiling too widely. “He stays down there most of the time.”

Kayla didn’t press further.

The next night, she woke to a scratching sound at her door. She opened it and found the cat sitting in the hallway, staring up at her.

She stepped back, expecting it to walk in.

But it just turned and padded silently down the hall—then down the stairs.

It paused halfway, looked back at her, and meowed.

Kayla followed.

The cat led her to the basement door.

She stood there, unsure.

It meowed again. Louder.

“I'm not supposed to go down there,” she whispered.

The cat pawed at the door.

Kayla hesitated… then opened it.

The basement was pitch black. The cat darted inside and disappeared.

She flipped the switch. Nothing.

Against her better judgment, Kayla stepped down into the dark.

The air grew colder with each step. The smell—like damp earth and rotting meat—hit her halfway down. Her stomach turned.

“Here, kitty?” she called weakly.

Something moved in the shadows.

She pulled out her phone, switched on the flashlight.

At first, she saw nothing—just dust, boxes, and old furniture.

Then her beam landed on the back wall.

Chains. Stained floor. Scratches in the concrete.

And a shape curled in the far corner.

It wasn’t the cat.

It was a person.

Or… it had been.

Skin gray and sagging. Eyes missing. Mouth sewn shut.

Kayla gasped and stumbled back, phone shaking in her hand.

Then—movement behind her.

She turned just in time to see Miriam at the top of the stairs.

“I told you,” she said softly, “he doesn’t like visitors.”

The door slammed shut.

Kayla screamed, ran up the stairs, pounded the door.

Locked.

From behind her, something growled.

She turned.

The cat was no longer a cat.

It grew.

Stretched.

Unfurled.

Eyes like burning coals. Limbs too long. Jaws unhinging with a hiss.

It wore fur like a costume. A disguise.

And it was hungry.

Kayla never made it out.

A new ad appeared the following week:

Room for Rent – $250/month. Quiet house. Must love cats.