The Last Guest

The night after my cat, Miso, was run over by a delivery van outside our apartment, I sat on the floor of the living room, unable to move. Miso had been my only company in that cramped flat above the old bakery on Ashworth Lane, and every corner was a ghost of him. When I finally dragged myself to bed, the sheets still faintly smelled of him. I lay there, staring at the ceiling, feeling the emptiness beside me.

Then I heard it: a soft, measured scraping from the floor next to my bed, just where Miso used to scratch his litter box when he wanted me to clean it. My heart jumped, and I sat up, flicking on the lamp. There was nothing there. The floor was bare except for a few of his stray hairs. I called his name, a stupid reflex, and the silence felt like a wall. I lay back down, my chest aching, and eventually I slept.

The next night, I turned off the light and waited. The sound came again, this time more insistent, rhythmic, like nails on wood. I didn’t get up. I just listened, my eyes wide in the dark. Then, after a few minutes, the sound stopped. In its place, I felt a slight depression on the mattress near my feet, as if something had jumped up. But the bed held no weight. I tried to rationalize it: house settling, pipe creaks. But my skin prickled.

On the third night, I had a plan. I left a bowl of milk on the floor by the bed, a silly superstition. I lay down, and as the scratching started, I held my breath. The scratching moved closer, toward the bowl. I heard a faint lapping sound, then a satisfied hum, like the one Miso made when he was content. I felt a cold weight settle against my calf, just like his furry body used to. I reached out blindly, expecting to touch nothing, but my fingers brushed against something soft and giving — like fur, but not warm. It was like cold cellophane.

I yanked my hand back and didn’t sleep that night. The weight remained, a faint pressure, until dawn. In the morning, the bowl was empty, licked clean. There were no paw prints, no water ring. Just an empty bowl. Then I noticed something else: my keys, which I always hung by the door, were lying on the nightstand, neatly arranged. The door was double-locked.

The scratching continued every night after that, growing more confident. Sometimes I felt the cold weight on my chest, pressing just lightly, like a paw testing. In the mornings, things were moved: a book set on a shelf, a cushion turned over, a photo frame facing the wall. Miso used to knock things off surfaces; this was deliberate, almost… thoughtful. I started sleeping in the armchair, and on the first night, the scratching came from the armchair’s armrest. It would not be ignored.

Last night, I finally confronted it. I turned on all the lights and shouted, ‘What do you want?’ The scratching stopped, and from the corner where his scratching post used to stand, I heard a low, rumbling purr — but it was wrong, too deep, too mechanical, like a motor under water. And then the lights flickered, and in that flicker, I saw a shape on the floor: not Miso, but something with too many joints, its head tilted, its eyes not reflecting the light but absorbing it.

The purr grew louder, and the cold weight slammed against my chest, pressing me down — not harming, but demanding. A whisper, like dry leaves, brushed my ear: ‘You forgot.’

I woke on the floor, the house dark, and the bowl of milk was back, filled to the brim with something that looked like milk but glowed faintly a sickly green. I haven’t gone back inside. I’m writing this from a motel across the street. But I know it’s still there, because when I look out the window, I see the living room light flicker on and off, and on the glass of my motel door, there are scratch marks. Not like a cat’s. Like a hand, three-fingered, patient.

I don’t know how to end it. I don’t think I’m supposed to. It’s not about Miso. It’s about something that wore his shape to get in, and now that it’s here, it doesn’t need the shape anymore. I just hope it doesn’t follow. But it’s already started scratching at the doorframe. And I’m not sure if I’m the one running, or if I’m the one it’s expecting.