Lin Zhi was eating cold rice in a fast-food restaurant downstairs from her office when her sister called.
It was Friday night, a little past nine. She had just finished revising a PowerPoint, her eyes bloodshot, her hands barely able to hold her chopsticks. Her phone vibrated on the table, lighting up with the caller ID: Sister.
She hesitated, then answered.
"Hello?"
"Zhi Zhi, can you go check on my place for a few days?" Her sister Lin Tao sounded hurried, as if she was rushing. In the background, Lin Zhi could hear airport announcements and the rumble of rolling suitcases.
"Check on your place?" Lin Zhi froze. "Did you get a cat?"
"I've had her for half a year. Her name is Tuantuan. The cat food is in the kitchen cabinet. Just change her water every day." Lin Tao paused. "Don't touch the stuff in my closet in my bedroom. I'll deal with it when I get back."
"What stuff?"
"Nothing, just old clothes and dolls." Lin Tao spoke quickly, as if afraid Lin Zhi would ask more. "The key is under the doormat. I'm rushing to catch my flight. Gotta go."
Beep —
The call ended.
Lin Zhi stared at her screen for a moment, then stuffed the last bite of cold rice into her mouth. She thought about calling her sister back to ask what was really going on, but decided against it. Her sister had always been secretive, even when they were kids — hiding things, refusing to let her touch anything. It was even worse now that they were adults.
She gathered her things and took a taxi to her sister's apartment.
The neighborhood was in the old town, built more than a decade ago. The buildings were run-down, the elevators often broken, and the landlord couldn't be bothered to fix them. Lin Zhi climbed to the sixth floor and stood in front of 603. She bent down and lifted the doormat.
The key was right there.
She opened the door. The apartment was quiet. The curtains were drawn, casting the room in dim light. Cat hair littered the floor and the sofa.
She called out at the doorway.
"Tuantuan?"
No reply. Of course there wouldn't be. But after a moment, a cat walked out of the kitchen. It was orange, extremely skinny, its ribs sticking out one by one like a tiny comb.
The cat circled her feet once and rubbed against her pants.
Lin Zhi knelt down to pet its head. The fur was smooth, but the cat felt unnaturally light, like dry kindling. When she touched its belly, she froze.
Its stomach was noticeably swollen, as if pregnant. But her sister said she'd only had the cat for six months. How could it be pregnant?
She remembered her sister saying the food was in the kitchen cabinet, so she stood up to pour some. The cat followed, meowing softly around her feet.
She filled a bowl with cat food and set it on the floor. The cat sniffed it, then turned and walked away.
Lin Zhi stood in the kitchen doorway, watching its back. Something felt off. Why wasn't the starving cat eating?
She sent her sister a WeChat message: Why is Tuantuan so skinny?
No reply.
She called. The phone was turned off.
She sighed and put her phone away.
That was her first night staying at her sister's place.
The next day, Lin Zhi didn't go to work. She took a day off to watch the cat. Something felt wrong, but she couldn't put her finger on what.
The cat didn't eat. It only drank water. The bowl emptied several times a day.
Its belly grew bigger each day.
Lin Zhi searched online. The results said it might be pregnancy, or illness. She figured she'd wait for her sister to come back and take it to the vet. There wasn't much she could do.
On the third night, she was woken up.
It wasn't loud, just soft, wet sounds. She drowsily opened her eyes. The room was pitch black. She felt something licking her hair.
Slowly, from root to tip.
She sat up abruptly and reached out.
Her hand touched fur. Soft, warm.
It was the cat. Tuantuan was squatting by her pillow, licking her hair.
Lin Zhi pushed the cat away and turned on the bedside lamp. When the light came on, she saw the cat sitting at the foot of the bed, eyes wide, pupils thin slits.
She touched the spot where it had licked. It was wet, with a fishy stench. Not cat food, not fur. Just raw, metallic odor — like fish, or blood.
She stared at the cat. The cat stared back.
A chill ran down her spine.
On the fourth day, she cleaned the litter box. As she dug the shovel in, she hit something hard. She moved the litter aside and froze.
It wasn't cat feces.
It was a small fingernail.
A human fingernail.
Short, with dried blood around the edges, neatly trimmed.
Lin Zhi's hand trembled. The shovel clattered to the ground.
She stared at the nail for a long time. Then she stood up, walked into the bathroom, closed the door, and splashed cold water on her face.
She remembered what her sister had said on the phone: Don't touch the stuff in my closet.
The bedroom door had been locked the entire time. The key under the doormat didn't fit it.
She sent another message: Sister, there's a human fingernail in the litter box.
No reply.
She called again. Still off.
She stood in front of the mirror, dark circles under her eyes, her face pale.
She wanted to call the police. But what would she say? That there was something inside the cat? That her sister was missing? For all she knew, her sister was just abroad, maybe her phone broke, maybe she couldn't get in touch.
She didn't know what to say.
On the fifth day, she called a locksmith.
He was a middle-aged man in a blue uniform with a large tool bag. He examined the lock, pulled out a wire, inserted it, and twisted.
Click.
The lock opened.
"How much?" Lin Zhi asked.
"One hundred twenty."
Lin Zhi paid with her phone. The locksmith left. She stood at the door, too scared to go in.
The door was slightly ajar. A cloying, sickeningly sweet scent drifted out. Not perfume, not cat food. Just thick, heavy, nauseating sweetness.
She covered her nose. Her palms were sweating.
She pushed the door open.
The room was tidy. The bed was made perfectly, blankets folded neatly. The curtains were sealed tight. No light entered. It was pitch black.
She turned on the light.
Against the wall stood a white wardrobe with three doors. On the nightstand was an open book. A drawer was slightly ajar.
Everything looked normal.
She walked to the wardrobe and opened the first door. Inside hung old women's clothes, her sister's style, but faded, as if they hadn't been worn in years. She flipped through them. Nothing unusual.
She opened the second door. Inside were neatly folded men's shirts — white, blue.
Lin Zhi stared. Her sister had no boyfriend, no husband. Who did these belong to?
She reached in. Under the shirts, nothing.
She opened the third door.
Inside was a handmade doll, about half a meter tall, wearing a floral dress. Its hair was black yarn. Its eyes and mouth were crudely stitched with red thread. The doll leaned deep inside the cabinet, holding something in its arms.
Lin Zhi stared at it.
She had seen dolls like this when she was little — handmade, creepy, poorly sewn.
She pulled the item from the doll's grasp.
It was a phone. Her sister's phone.
The case was pink, with a small cat charm. Lin Zhi recognized it. She had given it to her sister for her birthday.
The screen was cracked, but still lit up. She pressed the power button. A draft message appeared, addressed to her:
Zhi Zhi, don't come. The cat —
The message cut off.
Lin Zhi's blood ran cold.
She stuffed the phone in her pocket. Her hands wouldn't stop shaking.
She searched the rest of the room. Drawers held random items, an old notebook, hair ties. The open book on the nightstand was just a novel. Nothing strange.
She knelt and checked under the bed.
It was clean. But on the floor, deep scratch marks stretched from under the bed toward the wardrobe. They were deep, as if something had clawed furiously.
Lin Zhi stared at the marks, then looked back at the wardrobe.
The doll still sat there, motionless.
She reached for it, wanting to check behind it.
The second her finger touched the doll, she flinched.
It was ice cold. Not fabric cold. Like touching a block of ice. Like touching freshly thawed meat.
She pulled the doll out and flipped it over.
A seam ran down its back, crudely stitched with thick thread. The thread was red, the color of dried blood.
She ripped it open.
It wasn't stuffed with cotton.
It was hair.
Clumps of hair, tied with red string, filled the entire doll. Long, short, black, brown. Some still had roots. Some had bits of scalp attached.
Her hands shook. Hair spilled onto the floor. Among it, she saw a hair clip.
She recognized it.
It was hers.
She lost it three years ago.
She had bought it while shopping with her sister, wore it that day, and it vanished on the way home. She searched for days. Thought she'd dropped it outside.
She stared at the clip. Her mind went blank.
She suddenly looked up.
The cat had entered the room at some point. It squatted at the bedroom door, staring at her.
Its belly was round and taut, bigger than ever. Not pregnant-swollen. Stuffed-swollen. Like something was forced inside it.
Its pupils were thin slits, fixed on the doll in Lin Zhi's hands.
Lin Zhi's heart hammered in her chest.
She thought of the fingernail.
The stench in the litter box.
The unfinished message: Zhi Zhi, don't come. The cat —
The cat what?
Lin Zhi threw the doll back into the closet and slammed the door shut.
The cat still watched her.
She stared at it. A terrible thought exploded in her head.
What was really inside that cat?
She decided to kill it.
On the sixth day, Lin Zhi went to the supermarket downstairs and bought a sturdy pet carrier and thick rubber work gloves. The carrier was plastic with metal bars. The gloves were heavy-duty, bite-proof and scratch-proof.
When she returned home, the cat was on the sofa licking its paw. It saw her and meowed softly, as if acting cute.
Lin Zhi set the carrier on the floor, door open, with a few pieces of canned meat inside.
The cat sniffed but didn't enter. It looked up at her, round black eyes like glass beads.
Lin Zhi put on the gloves and approached slowly.
The cat stood, arched its back, and let out a low guttural purr. Not the happy kind. A threatening one. A warning.
She lunged.
The cat was faster than she expected. It leaped, claws slashing toward her face. Lin Zhi turned away. The nails grazed her cheek, burning hot. She touched it. Her hand came away bloody.
She gritted her teeth and grabbed for the cat's neck.
The cat twisted, slipped under her arm, and jumped onto the sofa. Lin Zhi leaped after it. The cat jumped down again and darted under the coffee table.
Lin Zhi knelt, blocked one side with the carrier, and reached in.
The cat's claws raked across her hand. Three deep gashes, flesh peeling. Lin Zhi didn't let go. She grabbed one hind leg and pulled.
The cat screamed.
High-pitched, shrill. Not a cat's cry. More like a wailing baby. Lin Zhi's skin crawled, but she held on.
She dragged the cat out, pinned its body, grabbed the scruff, and tried to shove it into the carrier. The cat thrashed wildly, claws tearing more scratches into her arms.
The carrier tipped over. The cat escaped.
Lin Zhi threw herself on top of it.
They wrestled on the floor. Claws ripped her sleeve, marking her arms. Lin Zhi pressed her knee into the cat and squeezed its neck.
The cat's screams weakened. Its struggles slowed.
Gasping, Lin Zhi stuffed it into the carrier and locked the door.
The cat circled inside, then went still. It squatted, staring at her through the bars. Pupils thin as needles.
Lin Zhi collapsed onto the floor, covered in wounds, blood dripping onto the floor. She stared at the cat, breathing heavily.
She stood up, lifted the carrier, and walked toward the door.
It was surprisingly heavy. The cat lay motionless, as if dead.
She paused to catch her breath. The cat watched her calmly.
She reached for the door —
Something slammed into the back of her head.
The world spun. As she fell, her eyes locked onto the mirror above the shoe cabinet.
Behind her stood a figure.
Tiny. Less than half a meter tall.
Floral dress.
Black yarn hair.
Its red-stitched mouth was stretched open in a grin.
Lin Zhi closed her eyes.
One week later.
Lin Zhi's phone rang.
The screen lit up with an unknown number.
It rang for a long time, then disconnected. A few seconds later, it rang again.
On the third ring, a small hand picked up the phone.
Tiny fingers, long nails painted bright red, neatly applied.
"Hello?"
A young man's voice came through: "Hi, is this Lin Zhi? I'm your sister's coworker. She asked me to pick up some documents. She's abroad and I can't reach her…"
"Mm, I know," the voice on the line said, high-pitched, childlike. "The key is under the doormat. Just come in."
"Alright. Oh, by the way, does she still have that cat? She mentioned it… what was its name again?"
"Tuantuan."
"Right, Tuantuan."
A short silence.
"She's here," the thin voice said. "She just finished eating."
The call ended.
Inside the room, the cat squatted next to the carrier, belly round, licking its paw.
Inside the carrier, a tiny hand reached out between the metal bars.
Nails painted bright red, perfectly neat.
The cat licked the hand, then continued grooming itself.
"Meow."
Soft, cute, innocent.
It stood, walked to the door, and squatted beside the doormat.
Waiting.
Footsteps approached outside. Light, slow.
One step.
Two steps.
Three steps.
They stopped.
A key turned in the lock.
Click.
The door opened.
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