The Black Cat of House 450

The Black Cat of House 450

By Farah Anees

After finishing dinner, I tidied up the kitchen and glanced at the clock hanging on the wall. “Oh no, it’s so late already!” I gasped, quickly grabbing the shawl from the sofa and tossing it around my shoulders. I slipped the house key into my purse and hurried out the door.

The Maghrib call to prayer echoed through the street as I walked briskly toward the children’s tuition center. The kids will complain again, I thought. They’ll say, “Mama forgot to pick us up!”

“Mama, you’re so late today!” complained my seven-year-old, Rehan, as soon as he saw me. His little sister, Anum, only six, walked beside him, lips pouting in silent protest. Their faces made me laugh despite my guilt.

“Alright, I’m sorry, my loves. I promise it won’t happen again,” I said.

“We’ll only forgive you if you let us stay at Nanu’s house this weekend!” Anum declared. I laughed and nodded. “Deal.”

“Now hurry up,” I said, taking their hands. “Your dad will be home soon.”

Instead of taking the main road, I turned into a narrow lane—a shortcut I usually avoided. “Mama, that house looks scary,” Rehan whispered, pointing to House No. 450. The place stood in complete darkness, radiating an eerie, suffocating silence. I tightened my grip on their hands and quickened my pace.

That night, after putting the kids to bed, I couldn’t stop thinking about that house. It wasn’t just fear—it was memory. My past was tied to that place.

My name is Aleena. Years ago, I had lived in that very house with my parents, my two elder sisters—Mehrin and Sana—and our younger brother, Haris. My father served in the army; my mother was a simple homemaker. When my father bought that new double-storey house, we were thrilled. It was beautiful—spacious rooms, a small garden with neem and jujube trees, and a porch just big enough for one car.

We three sisters took the rooms upstairs, while my parents and Haris stayed downstairs. Because we were easily frightened, we always slept together in one room. The night we moved in, exhaustion overcame us, and we fell asleep instantly.

But sometime during the night, I woke to a strange sound—a soft knocking. Half asleep, I opened the door, only to see a black cat staring straight at me. Its glowing eyes froze me in place. I screamed, waking my sisters. Mehrin rushed over. “You got scared of a cat?” she said, frowning at the animal that still stood in the hallway. Embarrassed, I went back to bed.

A few nights later, we were up chatting past midnight when we heard voices—muffled, as if people were talking in the TV lounge. “Who could it be at this hour?” Sana whispered. We stepped out quietly, following the sound. It led us to the kitchen.

And there it was—the same black cat, perched on the window. As soon as it saw us, it jumped down and disappeared into another room. We stared after it, dumbfounded—until we noticed the stove. It was on, and something was cooking. A rich aroma filled the air. Mehrin rushed to turn it off. None of us spoke that night.

When we told our mother the next morning, she scolded us. “That’s what happens when you girls don’t sleep early,” she said, dismissing it as imagination.

Days later, our aunt visited with her family. That evening, as everyone sat in the lounge chatting, Mother suddenly looked toward the staircase. “Aleena, look! One of the kids is still upstairs,” she said. We followed her gaze—and froze. A child’s shadow was moving along the wall of the stairs.

I ran up immediately. The lights were on. But there was no one there. When I told Mother, her face went pale. None of my cousins were missing. Whose shadow had that been?

Life returned to normal—or so we thought. Then came the two weeks when we traveled to Islamabad for a cousin’s wedding. When we returned, the entire house was spotless. Floors gleamed, furniture shone, and the air smelled freshly cleaned. “Looks like someone’s been doing the housework while we were gone,” Haris joked.

I went to wash my face—and froze. The bathroom floor was wet, as though someone had just used it.

From that day onward, strange things never stopped. The bathroom would always be damp, and at night, faint sounds came from the kitchen—the clatter of utensils, the faint hiss of the stove. And that black cat—she was everywhere, silent and watchful.

We tried to convince ourselves it was just nerves. But then, one night, everything changed.

My mother woke suddenly, feeling someone walking above her. She thought it was us girls chatting on the rooftop. She climbed the stairs quietly—and what she saw made her blood run cold.

Under the moonlight, a group of ten to twelve strange figures sat in a circle, murmuring in low voices. Their faces were shadowy, twisted, inhuman. Mother fainted on the spot.

At dawn, when Father got up for prayer, he found her unconscious on the stairs. When she came to, she told him everything. Father didn’t hesitate. “We’re leaving this house today,” he said firmly.

Within hours, we packed what we could and left that cursed place behind.

Years have passed since then. I am married now, a mother of two. But every time I pass by House No. 450, I feel that same chill crawl up my spine.

Because now I know—
The black cat we saw for months…
was never a cat at all.

It was something else—
something that still lives there.