You’d always loved quiet nights like this — the kind where everything felt easy and right. The two of you on the couch, a movie half‑playing in the background, Tod’s arm draped around you while Cookie curled up at your feet.

The world outside was dark, calm. Your parents were gone for the weekend. It was just you, Tod, and the gentle hum of the TV.

“Eight months,” Tod murmured, resting his chin on your shoulder. “Can you believe it?”

You smiled. “Feels like longer.”

He grinned. “That’s because you can’t get rid of me now.”

You laughed softly, swatting his arm — and then froze.

Because somewhere behind the laughter, through the faint static of the television, came a sound that didn’t belong.

A whisper. Low. Close. It said your name.

“…Y/N…”

You stiffened. “Did you hear that?”

Tod sat up, frowning. “Yeah. Thought it was the TV.”

You grabbed the remote and muted the screen. Silence filled the room. The air felt heavier, like it was pressing down on you.

Then the voice came again. Clearer. Sharper.

“Y/N…”

Your heart dropped. The voice was in the room. Not through a wall. Not from outside. In the room.

Tod’s eyes darted toward the sound — and that’s when you both saw her.

Cookie.

Standing upright on her hind legs beside the couch, tail flicking slowly, eyes wide and wrongly human.

Tod whispered, “What the hell—”

Cookie’s mouth moved. And she spoke.

“No one is going to believe you.”

The voice was smooth. Feminine. Cold. It didn’t come from her throat. It came from everywhere.

You screamed, stumbling back against Tod. Cookie didn’t flinch. She just… stared. Her head tilted slightly, like she was studying your fear.

Tod grabbed your arm. “What—what the hell is this?!”

Cookie blinked once. Her pupils stretched into thin, vertical slits that glowed faintly in the dim light.

Then, just as suddenly, she dropped back onto all fours — purring, tail curling like nothing had happened.

The room was silent again.

You stood there shaking, clutching Tod’s hand.

“She—she spoke,” you whispered. “She talked, Tod. You heard her.”

He nodded, pale, breath uneven. “I… I think so.”

But Cookie was already curled on the rug again, eyes half‑closed, as if bored of the whole thing. The soft sound of her purring filled the air.

Tod rubbed his forehead. “Okay. Okay. Maybe we imagined it. Some kind of—”

“She said no one’s going to believe us,” you interrupted.

The words hung in the air like smoke.

Tod glanced at Cookie again. The cat looked peaceful, asleep — except for the faintest twitch at the corner of her mouth, like she was smiling.