The Cat That Ate at Midnight

Rain splashed against the windows of the old hilltop cottage as Mira finally settled in with a warm blanket, a horror novel, and a bag of her favorite snack—honey chili puffs. She had rented the remote cottage to get away from her bustling city life and work on her novel, hoping isolation would help clear the mental fog.

The cottage was quiet, too quiet, save for the rhythmic ticking of a wooden clock on the wall and the occasional crackle of thunder. The landlady, Mrs. Marlowe, had handed Mira the keys that afternoon with a serious warning:

“You’ll see a cat. Black with a white stripe on its face. Do not feed it. No matter what. And never, ever give it snacks after midnight.”

Mira laughed it off. A country superstition, surely.

At exactly 11:47 p.m., as Mira dipped her hand into the crinkly snack bag, she heard a faint thud outside the back door. She paused, listening. Another thud, followed by a soft scratching. Then, a gentle meow.

Curious, Mira walked over and opened the door a crack.

A black cat with bright, intelligent eyes sat in the rain, drenched but composed. It looked up at her, cocked its head, and let out another meow. On its face was a perfect white stripe, like a painted bolt of lightning.

“Well, you must be the infamous one,” Mira muttered, remembering the warning.

She opened the door wider.

The cat didn’t hesitate—it trotted in like it owned the place, shook off the rainwater, and jumped onto the armchair across from her.

Bold. Unbothered.

Mira chuckled. “Not even a thank you?”

The cat blinked slowly, then locked eyes with her. Something about the stare was… unsettling.

She crunched another honey chili puff. The cat perked up.

“Don’t even think about it,” she said, waving a finger. “House rules.”

The cat meowed again. Longer. Almost pleading.

“Nope.”

Another thunderclap. The lights flickered.

She looked at the clock. 12:03 a.m.

A hiss from the chair made her turn.

The cat had moved closer—now sitting just a few feet away, eyes fixed on the snack bag.

“Okay, fine. Just one,” she muttered.

She tossed a puff toward it.

The cat sniffed it… and devoured it.

Then it looked up—and smiled.

Mira blinked. She swore—swore—the cat had smiled. Not just an animal twitch, but an actual grin, lips curling, eyes gleaming.

“What the hell—”

The lights flickered again. This time, they didn’t come back on.

In the pitch dark, Mira heard the bag crinkle.

Crunch.

Then a second crunch.

Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.

She turned on her phone’s flashlight and pointed it at the chair.

The cat was gone.

The snack bag lay ripped open on the floor. Puffs were scattered like tiny golden bombs across the carpet. She reached down cautiously.

The air suddenly chilled.

She turned the light to the kitchen.

A shadow darted across the wall.

Her breath caught.

It was not a cat.

It was something taller—thin, crawling on all fours, yet with long, extended limbs. A low growl came from the hallway.

She stumbled backward, heart hammering. “This isn’t real. It’s a dream. Too many horror novels—”

The creature stepped into view, illuminated now.

It had a cat’s face—but twisted. Elongated. With a grotesque smile stretched ear to ear, its eyes wide, unblinking. And in its clawed hand—it still held a honey chili puff.

“You broke the rule,” it rasped.

Mira couldn’t move. Couldn’t scream.

“You fed me,” it said. “Now I’m allowed to stay.”

It pounced.

Everything went black.

---

The next morning, Mrs. Marlowe stood on the porch, sipping tea as the local mailman arrived.

“New tenant not lastin’ long, huh?” the mailman said.

Mrs. Marlowe nodded solemnly. “I warned her about Whisker. Never feed the midnight cat.”

She turned toward the house.

Sitting in the window was the black cat with the white stripe.

Its tail swayed slowly.

And beside it sat a fresh, unopened bag of honey chili puffs.