Every night, when the moon hung like a thin silver blade in the sky, I’d hear the scratching from below. It began softly, like the rustle of mice in the walls, but would grow into clawing sounds, scraping and relentless, reminding me that he was still there, waiting.
It wasn’t always like this. I remember the first night he appeared in the basement, that cold, eerie place I rarely visited. I didn’t know who he was or how he got there, but I sensed something… wrong. His eyes glowed dimly in the dark, a sickly yellow that seemed to pierce right through me. He never spoke, never moved, only watched as I set down a plate of food and backed away.
Every night since then, I’ve made my way down the creaking stairs, carrying a tray of whatever I could scrape together. I never missed a night—not after the one time I tried.
It was last month. I was late returning home, the night darker than usual, and when I finally reached the basement, the scratching had grown furious. When I pushed open the door, my heart nearly stopped; he was standing just on the other side, grinning in that strange, twisted way. His long fingers, bony and crooked, reached for me before I dropped the tray and bolted back up the stairs.
I still don’t know what he is, or why he’s there. I never hear him speak, and I never see him move unless I’m late. But tonight… tonight is different. Tonight, as I lay in bed, the scratching grows louder. It’s as if he’s clawing through the walls, as if he’s closer than ever before. My heart pounds as I realize… he’s no longer waiting for me to come down.
He’s coming up.
As the scratching grew louder, the hairs on the back of my neck prickled, a cold dread seeping into my bones. I could hear each creak of the basement stairs, his slow, deliberate ascent inching closer. I thought about hiding, maybe fleeing out the back door, but something told me that running wouldn’t make a difference. He would find me.
I moved silently toward my bedroom door, pressing my ear against it. The sound was closer now—just outside. Heart pounding, I reached for anything I could use to defend myself and grabbed a small, rusty hammer from my desk drawer. It wasn’t much, but it was something.
The door creaked open slowly, almost as if he knew I was there, waiting for him. A pair of yellow eyes glowed from the shadow, pinning me in place. His face, pale and hollow, twisted into a grin as he stepped closer, his movements unnatural, jerking as if he were being controlled by invisible strings.
“Why… are you here?” I stammered, gripping the hammer so tightly my knuckles ached.
He tilted his head, his mouth stretching into a smile that was too wide, too empty. “You let me in,” he rasped in a voice that sounded like dead leaves scraping across the ground. “Every night. You brought me closer.”
I felt a wave of nausea, memories flooding back—every night, the food, the offerings. Had I invited him in, unknowingly feeding not just his hunger, but his strength?
Before I could react, he lunged, moving faster than I could comprehend. I swung the hammer wildly, feeling it connect, but he only laughed, his laughter echoing like broken glass shattering in my mind. Cold, bony hands wrapped around my arms, his grip freezing me to the core.
“Now,” he whispered, his face inches from mine, “you will feed me.”
Everything went dark.
The next morning, my house was silent, the basement door open and empty, as if nothing had ever been there at all. But at night, if you listen closely, you can still hear the faint scratching, growing louder, a reminder that the hunger remains—and that one day, it will return.