Scratches In The Night

Table of Contents

The house was quiet, the kind of stillness that makes you aware of your own breathing. Outside, the wind hissed softly against the siding, carrying the occasional groan of a tree branch shifting under its own weight. I’d been asleep for hours when I woke to a low, rumbling growl. It was my dog.

Rufus isn’t exactly the type to make a fuss at night. He’s old now—his muzzle graying, his eyes clouded with age, his days of bounding up the stairs long behind him. Half-blind, a little arthritic, and usually more interested in the warmth of his bed than anything else. But tonight, he was standing at the foot of mine, hackles raised, his head fixed toward the bedroom door.

The growl vibrated through him like it was coming from somewhere deeper than his chest. My first instinct was to shush him, maybe toss an arm over the side of the bed to reassure him. But then I noticed something—the way his body trembled, not from weakness, but from tension. His eyes were wide, glassy, locked on the door with a focus I’d never seen from him. My own pulse quickened. I held my breath and listened.

At first, I thought it was nothing. Just the normal creaks of an old house shifting in the night. But then I heard it—soft, deliberate, and unmistakable: scratching. It was faint, like nails on wood, slow and methodical, just beyond the door. I reached for my phone, fumbling to turn on the flashlight. The thin beam cut through the dark, washing over the dresser, the walls, the carpeted floor. I slid out of bed, every movement slow, deliberate, as if moving too quickly might draw attention from… whatever it was.

Rufus didn’t move from his spot. He stayed close to my side, his growl low but steady. The scratching stopped. I swallowed hard and reached for the doorknob. When I cracked the door open, the hallway beyond yawned with emptiness. The light from my phone stretched into it, revealing nothing but shadows and the same old beige carpet. No movement. No sound. The air was still. I took a step forward, my bare feet sinking into the familiar softness of the floor. Rufus stayed behind, just inside the bedroom.

“C’mon,”

I whispered, trying to coax him out. He didn’t budge. His head lowered slightly, eyes locked on the doorway as if he were guarding it. That should have been my first warning—dogs follow. That’s what they do. But Rufus wasn’t going anywhere. I took a few slow steps down the hallway, scanning each door, each corner. Everything looked normal. Too normal. The scratching had been so clear, so close. But now… nothing. Not even the faint hum of the refrigerator downstairs.

Eventually, I turned back. Rufus was still there, half-hidden in the doorway, muscles tense. I shook my head, telling myself it had probably been a rat, or a tree branch brushing against the siding. Back in bed, Rufus curled up at my feet, and sleep came in fits. Every sound made my eyes snap open, my body on edge. At some point, exhaustion won. When morning came, pale sunlight spilling through the curtains, I almost forgot about the night before—until I got up and saw them.

Scratches. Faint, but there. Four parallel lines etched into the wood on the inside of my bedroom door, right at ankle height. I crouched down, running a finger over them. The grooves were fresh. A cold weight settled in my stomach. Rufus’s claws hadn’t been sharp enough to mark wood in years. And they were too low for me to have accidentally caused them with furniture or shoes. I glanced over at Rufus, lying in his usual spot, his tail thumping lazily against the bedframe. He looked content, even happy, like nothing had happened. But then I remembered.

Last night, when I’d gone to check the hall, he hadn’t followed me. Not even a step. He’d stayed by the bed, staring at the door, even after I opened it. That wasn’t like him. If it were a rat or something small, his curiosity would have dragged him forward. And yet, he had stayed. Watching. Guarding. I looked back at the scratches. The lines seemed darker now, like whatever made them had left something behind—dirt, maybe. Or something else. I didn’t touch them again.

The rest of the day passed in a strange haze. I kept catching myself glancing at the door, half-expecting to see fresh marks. Rufus slept most of the afternoon, as he always did, but occasionally his ears would twitch, his head lifting toward the hallway as if listening to something I couldn’t hear.

When night came, I closed the bedroom door again, just like before. I told myself it was for warmth, but deep down I knew it was the opposite—I wanted a barrier. Rufus lay on the floor beside it, like a sentry.

Sometime after midnight, I woke again. No growling this time. Just silence. And then—scratch. Slow. Deliberate. Low to the ground. Rufus’s head snapped toward the door, but he didn’t growl. This time, he just stared, his body stiff. I didn’t move. I didn’t speak. The scratching stopped. And something else started. Breathing. Shallow. Just on the other side of the wood.

I stayed frozen in place, every muscle locked. Rufus didn’t take his eyes off the door, and for the first time in years, he pressed his body against my leg—not out of affection, but as if bracing himself. I wanted to grab my phone again, but it was across the room on the nightstand, too far away without making noise. The breathing went on for what felt like forever. Then, slowly, it faded. The air in the room seemed to relax, and I finally dared to breathe again. I didn’t sleep after that. When the sun came up, the scratches on the door were deeper. And this time, there were two sets.