The Petrov family had a cat named Murka — a big, striped home favorite. She was twelve years old and had long become a true member of the family. Her days were calm: napping on the armchair, stretching lazily on the windowsill, or brushing against someone’s legs to beg for a slice of sausage. Age had made her wise — and a little lazy.
But one habit of hers terrified everyone in the house. Every night, at exactly the same time, Murka would go to the living room and sit by the far wall. She would stare at the corner for hours — motionless, silent, her tail twitching slightly with tension.
At first, the Petrovs joked: “Who knows what goes on in a cat’s head.” But after a couple of weeks, it stopped being funny. Sometimes Murka began hissing at the empty space. Her fur stood on end, her ears flattened, and her eyes seemed to follow something invisible. One night, the father turned on the light and rushed to the corner — but there was nothing. No cobwebs, no mice, no cracks in the wall.
“Maybe she hears something we can’t,” the mother said softly, trying to sound calm, though her voice trembled.
But the nights became unbearable. The family avoided going into the living room once Murka began her silent “watch.”
Finally, they decided to investigate. They set up a camera in the living room, turned off the lights, and went to the next room to observe. Right at midnight, Murka, as usual, appeared in the frame and sat facing the corner. Her eyes glowed faintly in the dark. Then — the camera shook slightly, as if something unseen had brushed past it. And for a brief moment, a blurry shape appeared — a shadow, resembling a human figure.
“Did you see that?!” whispered the son, clutching his mother’s arm.
“I saw it,” she answered quietly, her face frozen in shock.
The room fell completely silent.
The next morning, the father said, “Enough fear. We need to find out what’s there.” They began moving the furniture. When they pushed away the heavy cabinet, they found something strange — a small door hidden in the wall. It was low, narrow, almost child-sized. Everyone’s heart started pounding. The door was locked with a rusty latch, but when they pried it open, it creaked loudly.
Behind it was a narrow, dark passage leading to a tiny windowless room. Dusty boxes sat inside, covered in cobwebs. The air was stale, heavy — as if it hadn’t been opened in decades. In one of the boxes, they found old children’s things: a one-eyed teddy bear, a toy car with a broken wheel, and several yellowed photographs. In them — a boy of about seven and an elderly woman, probably his grandmother.
But what they found in another box was far worse. Inside lay a small, worn diary, its pages stained with ink. The mother opened it and began to read aloud:
“I’m scared. No one believes me. He comes every night. He stands in the corner and watches. I close my eyes, but I can hear his breathing. I told Grandma, but she only crossed herself. And he said that one day he’ll take me.”
Each entry was darker than the last.
“Tonight he whispered my name. I screamed, but no one heard me. He’s waiting for me in the corner.”
The mother stopped reading. Her hands were trembling.
“That… that’s the same corner,” whispered the daughter, tears streaming down her face.
They all exchanged frightened looks. The silence was so thick they could hear the ticking of the kitchen clock.
That night, the family sealed the small door shut and plastered over it, swearing never to open it again. And from that night on, Murka’s behavior changed. She no longer went near the corner. She slept peacefully again, purring softly, as if her duty had been fulfilled — as if she had protected her family until they learned the truth.
Since then, the Petrovs have never laughed at the strange behavior of animals. Sometimes, they truly see what we cannot.
