Whiskers in the Dark

The storm was relentless that night. Sheets of rain lashed against the windows, and thunder rumbled through the sky like an ancient beast awakening from slumber. Amid this chaos, Lucy sat curled up in the corner of her couch, a cup of tea clutched between her hands. She tried to read, but the words blurred together, her mind too distracted. It wasn’t the storm that bothered her; she had always found the rhythm of thunder comforting, like nature’s lullaby. No, it was the silence—her cat’s silence—that set her on edge.

Tabby, her 10-year-old rescue cat, was usually a lively little thing. She’d spend hours chasing dust motes in the sunlight or pawing at the curtains, batting at the shadows like they were something to conquer. But tonight, all was still. Lucy hadn’t heard a single meow or even the soft patter of paws across the floor. It was as though Tabby had simply vanished into thin air.

At first, Lucy had shrugged it off. Cats are unpredictable, after all. But as the hours passed, unease began to crawl up her spine. She called out softly into the house, “Tabby? Where are you, sweetie?”

No answer.

The house was unusually cold, the sort of cold that settled in your bones, the kind you couldn’t quite explain. Lucy rose from the couch, setting the tea on the table, and walked into the kitchen. She paused at the door, scanning the dimly lit room. No sign of Tabby. She checked under the sink, in the pantry, and even inside the cabinets—nothing.

“Come on, Tabby,” she muttered. “Where are you hiding?”

It was then that she heard it. A soft, almost imperceptible scratching sound coming from the hallway, near the staircase.

Lucy froze. The sound was faint, but it was unmistakable. She wasn’t imagining it. Tabby was there—somewhere.

She turned the corner, her heart beating faster with every step. The house was old—creaky floorboards, and doors that groaned on their hinges. She could hear the storm growing stronger outside, the wind howling against the windows, but the house itself was eerily quiet, save for that scratching noise.

It was coming from the attic.

Lucy swallowed, unease creeping into her chest. The attic was a place she’d always avoided. It was full of things that didn’t belong, a jumble of forgotten items—old furniture, cardboard boxes, half-finished craft projects. And the thick layer of dust that had gathered over the years made it feel like no one had stepped foot there in ages. She hadn’t even needed to go up there since she moved in, except when she needed to retrieve the Christmas decorations.

With a deep breath, she grabbed the old wooden ladder that led up to the attic and pulled it down. The scratching stopped.

Lucy hesitated. She hadn’t even heard the cat’s familiar meow yet. Maybe it wasn’t Tabby. Maybe it was a raccoon. Or a bat. Something that had gotten trapped in the attic, and now it was desperate to get out. The thought should have comforted her, but it didn’t. Her gut told her something was wrong.

She climbed the ladder slowly, her hands trembling as she gripped the edges of the wooden steps. The attic door creaked open, and the smell of dust and old wood rushed to meet her.

"Tabby?" she called again, a little louder this time. "Come on, kitty."

There was no answer. Just the overwhelming stillness of the attic. She flicked the light switch on, the bulb flickering weakly before casting a dim, eerie glow over the space.

She scanned the room. Old boxes, furniture draped in sheets, stacks of magazines. And then she saw it.

In the farthest corner, near the window, something was moving.

Lucy’s breath caught in her throat. It was too dark to see clearly, but she was certain she saw a shape—something small and quick darting across the floor.

Tabby?

She moved cautiously toward it, her heart pounding in her chest. The closer she got, the more the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. It didn’t feel right. It was almost as if the shadows themselves were alive, shifting and whispering, trying to wrap around her.

Then, out of the corner of her eye, she saw something that made her freeze: a pair of glowing eyes staring at her from the darkness. They weren’t Tabby’s. Tabby’s eyes were a soft amber, like honey. These were a deep, unnatural green, and they glowed like the eyes of a predator.

Lucy’s throat tightened. She took a step back, but the eyes never left her.

Something was wrong with the cat.

Suddenly, the form in the corner shifted, and out of the shadows came the unmistakable figure of Tabby. But something was different. Her fur was matted and thick, her once-sleek coat now dirty and tangled. Her eyes, too, were not the warm, affectionate ones that Lucy had come to love. They were wide and glassy, empty—inhuman. Her body moved strangely, like a puppet on strings, jerking forward in stiff, unnatural motions.

Lucy’s stomach lurched. This was not her cat.

The air grew thick, and heavy, pressing down on her. The storm outside raged louder, but she couldn’t tear her eyes away from the creature in front of her. Slowly, Tabby’s mouth opened, and a low, guttural growl rumbled from her throat—so deep it was almost unrecognizable.

Lucy’s body froze in terror. This thing, this thing that had once been her cat, took a step toward her, the unnatural eyes never blinking.

A voice—faint, distant, but familiar—echoed in her mind.

Save me, Lucy.

It was Tabby’s voice. But it was distorted, weak, and desperate.

Before Lucy could react, the creature lunged at her, its claws swiping through the air with a terrifying speed. She screamed and stumbled backward, tripping over a pile of old boxes, but before she could hit the ground, something yanked her back up.

She turned to find herself face-to-face with the real Tabby—alive, shaking, and covered in dust, her eyes wide with fear. At that moment, Lucy realized what had happened. The thing in front of her was not her cat. It was something else—something that had taken her form, but it wasn’t her.

“Tabby…” Lucy whispered, tears streaming down her face as she held the real cat close. “I won’t let it take you.”

The creature shrieked—a horrible, shrill sound—and lunged again. But this time, it was met with a sharp, loud crack. The attic door slammed shut, cutting off the creature’s path.

Lucy barely registered what had happened, her body trembling with relief. She clutched Tabby to her chest, her heart racing, and backed toward the ladder. The storm outside had ceased, leaving an unsettling calm in its wake.

When Lucy finally descended the ladder and turned to leave the attic, she hesitated. The scratching sound returned, but it wasn’t coming from the attic anymore.

It was coming from beneath the floorboards.

And it was getting closer.