WET PUSSY

All night, the storm lingered over Blackthorn City like a restless guest, hitting the rooftops like fists on locked doors. Streets ran like rivers, neon signs sputtered in the downpour, and the few pedestrians who dared to venture out moved like ghosts blurred by rain.

Selene March wasn't expecting visitors not at this hour, not in this weather. Yet something scratched at her apartment door.

Not the knock of a neighbor. Not the shuffle of human hands.

Scratch Scratch Pause Scratch.

Her pulse quickened. The storm outside howled as she crept closer, barefoot on the cold tiles, the hairs on her arms lifting like needles of static. She hesitated, then pulled the door open an inch.

There it was.

A cat. Black as midnight, its fur plastered to its frame by the rain, eyes gleaming with unnatural intensity. The drenched creature sat perfectly still, tail curled around its soaked paws.

It should have looked pitiful. Instead, it looked like it had been waiting.

Selene almost laughed at herself. "Just a cat," she whispered, though her voice sounded unsure even to her own ears. She bent low, the metallic tang of the storm heavy in the air, and the cat hissed softly as though warning her.

She was about to close the door when her eyes shifted past the creature, toward the glass window across the hall.

That's when she froze.

A handprint.

Pressed against the outside of her rain-slicked window. Fingers splayed, dripping red.

Selene stumbled back, breath caught in her throat. Her mind screamed to run, to call someone, anyone-but the cat slipped past her legs into the apartment before she could react.

The lights flickered.

The storm raged.

And Selene realized she wasn't alone tonight.

Selene's breath fogged the air as though her apartment had turned cold in an instant. The storm was bad enough, but that bloody handprint pressed against her window was something she couldn't rationalize.

She moved closer, each step slower than the last. Her reflection in the glass wavered with the shifting light of the storm. The print was still there, fingers long, streaks trailing downward where rain diluted crimson into pink.

It was fresh.

Someone had been standing there.

Her throat went dry.

She lived on the fourth floor.

Selene staggered back, bumping into the small table where unopened mail scattered to the floor. The cat silent until now leapt onto her couch, its wet paws leaving dark prints on the fabric. Its golden eyes fixed on the window.

It wasn't afraid. It was watching.

Her shaking hand reached for her phone. Dead. The screen refused to light. She cursed, remembering she had left the charger in her car earlier.

Another flicker the power wavered, humming as though the building itself held its breath. Then silence, so complete the roar of rain outside felt muted.

And in that silence, Selene swore she heard it.

Footsteps.

Not from the hallway.

From inside.

Selene pressed her back against the wall, every muscle rigid. The sound those faint, deliberate footfalls still echoed in her head. But the apartment was small. One bedroom, one kitchen, one living space. She would have seen someone by now.

"Get it together," she muttered, her voice thin and trembling. "Storm's messing with your head."

The cat twitched its ears, As if disagreeing.

She rubbed her temple, pacing slowly across the room. Her bare feet brushed the scattered envelopes on the floor, their edges damp with spilled rainwater from her shoes by the door. She crouched to gather them, eager for something,anything that grounded her in the ordinary.

That's when she noticed it.

The top envelope. The one with no return address.

She didn't remember bringing it in.

The paper was slightly warped, as though it too had been caught in the storm. Across the front, in thick black ink, her name stretched in an uneven hand: SELENE MARCH.

Her stomach dropped. She hadn't received hand-addressed mail in years.

The cat jumped down from the couch, padding silently to the table. It brushed against the envelope as if urging her to open it.

"No," she whispered, shoving the stack aside. Her heart was beating too hard, too fast. She hadn't even looked at the bloody window again. Couldn't.

Her thoughts spiraled: the storm, the handprint, the dead phone, now this envelope. It was too much. Was she imagining all of it?

Her breath hitched. What if the bloody handprint wasn't even there?

Driven by a desperate need to prove herself wrong, Selene forced herself back toward the window. Each step felt like wading through water. Her reflection met her first, pale and wild eyed.

She looked past it.

The window was clean.

No handprint.

Selene staggered back, gripping the frame with both hands. She wanted to laugh, cry, scream all at once.

The storm outside battered on.

And the cat purred.