The Hollow Scratch

The afternoon sun slanted through the venetian blinds in Marcus’s basement apartment, casting striped shadows across the worn carpet. I was sprawled on the lumpy couch, Marcus was cross-legged on the floor, and his girlfriend, Elena, was perched on a folding chair that squeaked every time she shifted. It was a lazy Sunday, the kind where time stretched thin and the only sounds were the hum of the old refrigerator and the occasional clink of ice in our glasses. We’d been talking about nothing, the way you do, when a knock at the door made us all look up. Marcus got up, wiping his hands on his jeans, and opened it to find his neighbor, Mrs. Gable, asking if he could help her with a stuck window. He was gone for about twenty minutes, and when he came back, he shrugged and said, ‘Old lady’s got a warped frame.’ We laughed, and then Elena suggested we play some old PlayStation 2 games she’d found in a box. So we trooped into Marcus’s bedroom, a cramped space with a twin bed, a nightstand, and a TV on a milk crate. I sat on the edge of the bed, Marcus hunched on the floor, and Elena took the only chair, leaning back with her arms crossed. We were deep into a dogfight in some flight combat game, passing the controller when a low, deliberate scratch came from under the bed. We all froze. Marcus’s cat, a gray tabby named Wisp, had been asleep on the windowsill, and she lifted her head, ears swiveling. ‘That’s not Wisp,’ I said, my voice too loud in the silence. Marcus peered under the bed. Nothing. He shrugged, and we resumed playing, but the air in the room had changed. A few minutes later, another scratch, this one longer, ending with a tiny thud against the wall. Wisp bolted off the windowsill and under the bed, her fur bristled. Marcus lay flat on his stomach, peering into the dim space. ‘There’s nothing here,’ he said, but his face was pale when he got up. Elena whispered, ‘Maybe it’s the pipes.’ We tried to laugh, but the next scratch came from behind the TV, followed by a soft, rhythmic tap-tap-tap from inside the wall. We all turned to the closet door, which was slightly ajar. Inside, there was nothing but a few boxes and a coat. Then the scratching started on the other side of the closet door, as if something was trying to claw its way out. And then, a voice, high and thin, like a child’s, said, ‘Let me out.’ We all stared at each other. Marcus grabbed a baseball bat from under his bed, his knuckles white. Elena clutched the arms of her chair. I felt the hairs on my arms stand up. The scratching continued, now from all corners of the room, growing faster, more frantic, until it melded into a single, maddening scrape. Wisp yowled and shot out from under the bed, her back arched, and she hissed at the closet. Then, as suddenly as it started, the sounds stopped. The room was silent, save for our ragged breathing. The closet door swung open slowly, revealing only dusty boxes. We exchanged looks, but no one wanted to admit what we’d heard. Marcus put the bat down, wiped his forehead. ‘Probably a rat,’ he said, but his voice was hollow. Elena stood up, her legs shaky. ‘I need some air.’ She walked out, and Marcus followed, leaving me alone in the room. I wanted to go too, but as I moved to get up, I saw the closet door was now fully open, and on the floor inside, there was a small, hollow scratch in the wood, shaped like a heart. And from deep within the apartment, I heard the front door click shut, and then the sound of a key turning in the lock.