Before I opened my pet shop, I figured the worst that could happen was losing money. Bleeding out until I had to shut the doors. Burning through every cent my parents gave me to start this thing. I was ready for that.
I never imagined something would crawl out, leave footprints on my floor, then curl up at the foot of my bed, quiet as a creature that had found its home.
That night, I sat on the edge of my mattress, feet dangling in the air, too scared to touch the floor.
I heard it. A bell. Soft. A single chime. There was no bell in my living room. I'd never hung anything like that on the walls. But the sound came from the dark. Something flicked the brass clapper once, then stopped.
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My name is Lin Yue. Twenty-five. I run a small pet shop in the old part of Nancheng.
The shop sits on a decent street. Narrow storefront, long and deep. Three tiers of iron cages stacked against both walls — twelve in total. The first two months, business was dead. Three cats and two dogs, all boarded by other people. The rest of the cages sat empty.
March 14th. Closing time. I did the rounds — refilled food, changed water, checked windows and doors. When I got to the cage in the far back corner, my hand paused on the iron gate.
That cage was shoved into the darkest nook. Dim light. I never bothered with it since it was empty. That night, I pulled the gate open and glanced inside. Thin layer of dust on the metal floor. Clean. Nothing.
I was about to close it when the cage shifted. Barely. Like someone pushed it from outside. But the shop windows were shut. No wind. I gripped the gate and froze for a second. Thought maybe the print shop next door was drilling into the wall. But it was Sunday. They'd closed hours ago.
I looked at the cage again. Still. Silent. Lined up against the wall with the others. Nothing strange. I pushed the gate shut. The latch clicked. Grabbed the trash bag and left.
The next morning, I unlocked the shop and went straight to the corner cage.
The door was open. Swung wide outward. The latch hung loose on the side bar, like something had pushed it open from the inside.
I was sure I'd locked it the night before. That spring latch doesn't come undone by itself — you have to pry it open. The orange tabby in the cage next to it was huddled in the corner, tail tip slightly fluffed, eyes locked on the empty cage.
I walked over, shut the door, snapped the latch down. Stared into the cage for a long moment. Same thin dust on the metal floor. Nothing there.
I turned it over in my head all day. Maybe I'd remembered wrong. Didn't latch it properly. The wind blew it open. But there was no wind in the shop. Rolling shutter down. Windows shut. Couldn't make sense of it. At closing time that night, I checked twice. Latched it. Tugged on it. Wouldn't budge.
Next morning, I rolled up the shutter and went straight for the corner cage.
Door open again. Swung wide. Latch hanging on the bar.
This time, there was something inside. A small puddle on the metal floor. Oval-shaped. Palm-sized. The water was clear, no smell. Three faint scratches ran through the center — like some small animal had swiped its paw through it.
A chill crawled up the back of my neck. I hadn't misremembered this time. I'd tested the latch. It was dead bolted.
That afternoon, a customer walked in. Middle-aged woman. She was carrying an orange tabby, belly swollen. Pregnant.
She said she'd found the cat at her apartment complex. Stray. Due any day now. She had a kid at home, couldn't take care of it. Heard there was a pet shop on this street, so here she was.
I didn't want to take it. The shop was tight on space. Live animal consignments needed paperwork. A stray with no background — I wasn't comfortable.
But she set the cat on my counter, eyes already reddening, and said the cat had followed her for three days. Everywhere she went, the cat was there. She couldn't bear the thought of it giving birth on the street.
The cat sprawled on my counter, tail curled around its belly, eyes half-lidded, breathing slow. You could see the kittens moving through the stretched skin — little kicks. Little bodies stirring inside.
I caved.
I took the cat. Gave it its own cage — not the empty corner one, but one in the middle tier. Good temperature. Decent airflow. Laid down a pee pad. Set up a nesting box. Water bowl. Food bowl. The cat circled twice, then curled up in the nesting box and fell asleep like it could finally rest.
I named her A'Ju.
A'Ju gave birth on her third night at the shop. I'd stayed late — past ten — still cleaning up when I heard a low whine from the cage.
When I went over, the nesting box was already soaked. A'Ju's back was arched, straining. Thin, muffled sounds from her throat. The first kitten came out smooth. I pulled on disposable gloves, tore the membrane, wiped its nose and mouth clean. The little thing squeaked twice, pink paws flailing in the air.
The second one got stuck. A'Ju pushed and pushed, couldn't get it out. I helped, gently. It slid free with a rush of fluid. Three kittens in total. All of them heartbreakingly small — barely bigger than my thumb. Fur not grown in yet. Wrinkled. Raw.
After the birth, A'Ju lay there, not moving. Her chest heaved. Her breathing was ragged, shallow. The three kittens burrowed under her belly, searching. One managed to latch. The other two nosed around blindly, couldn't find anything. I crouched in front of the cage until midnight. Fed A'Ju glucose water. She licked twice, then stopped.
The next morning, I got to the shop and looked at A'Ju's cage first. The mother cat lay on her side in the nesting box. Her body was cold. Eyes half-open. The three kittens were still beside her belly. One was curled up, completely still. The other two were still nudging, making sounds thinner than a mosquito's whine.
A'Ju didn't make it. The birth had drained everything out of her. Maybe she was old. Maybe the street life had worn her down. When I lifted her out of the nesting box, I could feel every rib through her skin. She was bone-thin.
I tried feeding the three kittens goat milk formula with a syringe. The two that could still open their mouths swallowed a little. The curled-up one never woke. By noon, its body was cold too.
Of the two left, one died the next morning. The last one held on an extra day. It died on the third night, right in the palm of my hand. By then it wasn't really moving anymore. Soft. Boneless. Its skin was so thin I could see the blue veins underneath. Mouth half open. It exhaled — a tiny wisp of breath — and didn't take another.
I put the three kittens and A'Ju into a small cardboard box and called the pet funeral service. When they drove off, I stood in the doorway and watched the van turn the corner. The wind hit my eyes and they stung.
Back inside, I stared at the empty middle-tier cage. The pee pad still held the imprint of A'Ju's body. A tuft of orange fur still clung to the nesting box. I removed the box. Changed the pad. Took away the bowls. The cage was empty.
An empty cage should never stay empty overnight. Old Zhou told me that later.
But I didn't know that night. A'Ju's cage was empty. I didn't put water in it. Didn't hang a bell. Just left it hollow all night long.
The next morning, I opened up and checked A'Ju's old cage first. Clean. No signs of disturbance. Then, out of habit, I glanced at the corner cage — the one that had been empty for a while — and my eyes locked on it.
There was water on the metal floor. A bigger puddle than before. The edges were scattered, like something had thrashed inside.
The three scratches had become seven or eight. Chaotic. And the metal floor itself — there was a slight bulge in it. A tiny bump, pushed up from underneath. Like something had jabbed it with a claw from below.
I stood there, frozen. The corner cage had been empty for almost a week. Before, it was just puddles and scratches. Now the metal was dented. The thing was getting worse.
That afternoon, I couldn't take it anymore. I got on my bike and rode to the flower and bird market to find Old Zhou. Old Zhou sold parrots. He'd been doing business on this street for twenty years. He'd seen some things.
I offered him a cigarette and told him everything. From the start. The corner cage door opening on its own. The water seeping in. A'Ju dying. The metal floor getting dented. I didn't leave out a word. When I got to A'Ju, my voice caught. Old Zhou glanced at me and said nothing.
When I finished, he ignored my cigarette. Pulled out his own, lit it, blew smoke. "You know what used to live in that corner cage?"
I said the previous owner transferred everything to me. The cages were new. Never used.
Old Zhou shook his head. "Not new. Look at the horizontal bar on the cage door, right side. You see three shallow scratches?"
I thought back. Yeah. Faint marks. I'd assumed they were factory scratches.
"Dog claws," Old Zhou said. "That cage used to hold a dog. Dog's gone. Cage is empty. The last owner knew the rules. Put water and a bell in the empty cage. So nothing ever happened. You didn't. Left it empty for days. Something moved in."
"Something?"
"Strays. Dead ones. Lost ones. You run a pet shop. How many dogs and cats pass your door every day? How many die on the roadside? How many get dumped by their owners? You think I need to tell you?"
Old Zhou crushed his cigarette. "An empty cage is like abandoned land. No water, no bell — it thinks no one's watching. So it claims it. Then your pregnant cat died and another cage went empty. It smelled that. Figured this was a good place. Got company now. Even less reason to leave."
A cold line shot up my spine. "What do I do?"
"Go back. Put a bowl of clean water in the corner cage. Hang a brass bell. The water's for passersby to drink. The bell tells it someone's here, someone's watching. It drinks, knows it's being looked after — it'll settle down."
Old Zhou paused. "Also, don't leave A'Ju's cage empty. Put something in it. A toy. A cushion. Anything. Two empty cages next to each other — the thing will start drifting between them."
That night, I went back to the shop. First, I put an old cat bed into A'Ju's cage. Stuffed a towel inside. The empty cage didn't look so empty anymore.
Then I went to the corner cage. Placed a white ceramic bowl in the center. Poured half a bowl of clean water. Found a small brass bell. Tied it to the inner bar of the cage door with red string. Hung it two fists above the water bowl. Small bell. Brass. Thin metal clapper inside. One touch and it'd ring.
I crouched there, staring at the cage. Under the orange spotlight, the water bowl gleamed. The bell hung still. I suddenly thought of A'Ju. If she were alive, she'd be in her cage right now, licking her paws. Three kittens tucked under her belly, squeaking.
Now there was nothing. Just two empty cages. One with an old cat bed. One with a bowl of water and a bell.
When I locked up, I glanced back. The bell in the corner cage swayed slightly under the light. But it didn't ring. Probably the wind.
I slept okay that night. No dreams. Next morning, I went straight to the corner cage.
The door was shut. Latched. The water in the bowl was half gone. Around the bowl, on the metal floor: a trail of wet paw prints. Round. Four-petaled plum blossom shape. They led from the edge of the bowl to the inside of the cage door, then vanished. Smaller than a cat's. Bigger than a mouse's. Evenly spaced. Like some tiny thing had finished drinking and padded to the door, then disappeared.
The bell hadn't rung. But the red string was crooked. The bell tilted to one side. Like something had bumped it with its head.
The orange tabby in the next cage was balled up in the corner. When it saw me, it let out a thin meow. Trembling. I checked A'Ju's cage. The cat bed was still there. Towel in place. Floor clean. No prints. No water.
Old Zhou stopped by again that afternoon. I told him what happened. He picked up the water bowl from the corner cage, checked the bottom. A little gray-white powder had settled there. He rubbed some between his fingers. Sniffed it. Brushed his hands off and said it was fine. Drank the water and left. Just passing through.
"You did the right thing with A'Ju's cage," he said. "Putting the cat bed in there. It knows someone's around. Won't wander over."
I asked about the dent in the corner cage floor. Old Zhou said the thing couldn't find water the first few nights. Got desperate. Scrabbling. Now it had water, it'd calm down. Before leaving, he reminded me again: no empty cage overnight. Whether there's an animal in it or not, check every cage before closing. If it's empty, put water and a bell in. That's the rule. Break the rule, invite trouble.
I nodded. Got it. Remembered.
That night, before locking up, I checked both empty cages. Corner cage: water bowl full, bell hanging straight. Middle cage: cat bed arranged, towel smooth. Pulled down the rolling shutter. Locked it. Turned to head home.
About ten steps down the street, a sound came from the shop behind me.
Ding. A bell. One clear note. In the quiet alley, it rang sharp and crisp. I stopped. Turned. The shutter was down. The shop was dark. Couldn't see a thing. Another chime. Ding. Then silence.
I stood under the streetlight. Every hair on my back stood up. The street was empty. The baozi shop across the road had closed. Their shutter was pulled all the way down. Just me. Standing there. Listening.
I thought about going back. Decided not to. Old Zhou said it was calm now. Could've been the wind. Could've been a mouse. Could've been nothing. I picked up my pace. Half-jogged all the way to my rented apartment. Double-locked the door behind me.
That night, there was a dripping sound in my living room. Drip. Drip. Like a faucet not quite shut. I got up twice to check. Kitchen tap was off. Bathroom was dry. The sound seemed to come from the middle of the living room floor. Hollow. Steady. I pulled the blanket over my head and slept.
Next morning, I stood in front of the corner cage and my heart dropped.
The water bowl was flipped over. Upside down on the metal floor. Water everywhere, soaking a huge patch. The bell had fallen. Red string still tied to the bar. The brass bell lay in the corner of the cage, clapper bent to the side.
The metal floor was a mess. Wet paw prints everywhere. Big ones. Small ones. Fresh. Drying. From the bowl to the door. From the door to the back wall. Back and forth. Again and again. It didn't look like something that drank and left. It looked like something that had paced in there all night, frantic. Knocked the bowl over. Knocked the bell down. The cage door was shut. The latch was on.
I checked A'Ju's cage. The cat bed had shifted. Pushed from the center to the left corner. The towel was on the floor. There was a damp patch on the metal floor. In the exact shape A'Ju made when she lay down.
Two empty cages. One had gone crazy. The other had been visited.
I stood between the two rows of cages, hands and feet ice cold.
Old Zhou came again. He crouched in front of the corner cage for a long time. Checked A'Ju's cage too. This time, he didn't say it was fine.
From his canvas bag, he pulled out three sticks of incense and a small dish of coarse salt. Sprinkled salt in the four corners of both cages — a pinch per corner. Lit the incense and stuck it in the water bowl of the corner cage. He'd flipped the bowl right-side up and refilled it. Then he slipped a folded piece of yellow paper under the cat bed in A'Ju's cage.
He muttered something the whole time. So low I couldn't make out a single word.
When he was done, he straightened up. "Tonight, don't close the shop door. You stay here. Turn off all the lights except that small spotlight above the corner cage. Sit in the back. Don't make a sound. Don't move. It'll come out at night. Tomorrow morning, you tell me what you saw."
"What does it look like?"
Old Zhou shook his head. "You can't see it. You'll see what it leaves behind. Water marks. Paw prints. The cage shaking. The door opening. That's how it says hello."
After Old Zhou left, I stood in front of the shop for a while. People walked by on the street. The baozi shop across the road had steam rising from their baskets. A young woman walked past with a corgi. The corgi stopped at my doorstep, sniffed the threshold, wagged its tail. So normal it felt unreal.
I went back inside. Wiped the water from both cages. Tidied everything up. Moved the orange tabby to a cage near the front door.
When it got dark, I pulled the rolling shutter halfway down, leaving a gap. Turned off every light except the small spotlight above the corner cage — a bean-sized bulb casting orange light. It haloed the cage. The water bowl gleamed faintly. The bell had a dull, quiet shine.
I dragged a folding chair to the back room doorway. About eight steps from the cage. Phone on silent. In my pocket. Hands on my knees. Watching.
The first hour, nothing happened. Footsteps on the street. Coming closer. Fading away. The orange tabby was asleep long ago. Curled up. Silent.
Around eight-thirty, my eyes stung. I blinked. When I opened them, the corner cage door was moving.
Slow. Gentle. The iron gate pushed outward, bit by bit. The latch was still on, but the door itself — something had nudged it from the middle. A creak. A gap. Two fingers wide.
Then the whole cage shook. Like someone had stomped hard beside it. The iron frame hummed. The bell on the bar swung, silent.
The door opened a little more. The water in the bowl was moving. Ripples spreading from the center outward. Like something had dipped its head in to drink. The water sloshed. Spilled over the rim. Trickled down the side of the bowl. Spread into a wet patch on the metal floor.
Paw prints appeared on the wet metal. Two small dots — front paws pressing down. Then two more behind. Then the full four-petaled plum blossom. A trail of wet prints starting from the bowl. Step by step. Across the dry metal. As sharp as if drawn with a pen.
The prints stopped at the inside of the cage door. The door opened another finger-width. Then claws hooked onto the iron bars. Two front paw prints appeared on the lowest horizontal bar. Then moved up. Second bar. Third bar. Something was climbing the inside of the cage.
The prints reached the top bar and stopped. Two front paws resting on the iron rod. Water dripped down. Drip. Drip.
It was hanging from the top bar of the cage door, peering out through the gap. Looking in my direction.
It felt like ice water poured down my spine. My whole body went rigid. Those two wet paw prints clung to the bar, motionless. Water beading. Falling. The cage shook again. Harder. The whole iron frame tilted forward. The door creaked open wider. Four fingers now.
The paw prints vanished from the bar. Then appeared on the floor outside the cage.
It was out.
A trail of wet prints led from the cage door toward me. Step by step. They stopped three inches from my toes. I sat in the folding chair, feet flat on the floor. Those invisible wet paws were right there in front of me.
A damp chill washed over my shins. Like a small, soaking-wet creature was crouched at my feet, looking up at me. I didn't dare move.
Then I heard it. Faint. Thin. Coming from right in front of my toes. A rumble. A purr. Like a cat's purr. Like a dog whimpering in its sleep. Soft. Broken. The thing at my feet was making a sound.
The paw prints turned. Curved around my feet. Headed toward the back room. I turned my head to watch. A trail of wet plum blossoms extended past my chair into the back. Past the shelves. Vanished at the bathroom wall. The soft purring sound drifted farther away, then stopped.
As the sky began to lighten, I heard the sound of a broom on the street outside. I stood up slowly. My legs were numb — pins and needles like electric shocks. I leaned on the wall and walked to the corner cage. Door open. Inside, empty. The water bowl was half-empty. The bell hung still, silent.
I checked A'Ju's cage. The cat bed was back in the center. The towel smoothed flat. The floor was clean. Like nothing had ever happened.
Old Zhou came by after eight. He took one look at my dark circles and trembling lips and patted my shoulder. "You saw it?"
I nodded. It came out. Circled around me. Went to the back room.
Old Zhou asked if it made a sound. I thought about it. Yeah. Purring. Old Zhou's expression shifted. He walked to the back room. Paced around. Came back.
"Not a passerby," he said. "Passersby don't make sounds. It purred right at your feet. That means it recognizes you."
"What about A'Ju's cage?" Old Zhou asked.
I said it was quiet. Nothing moved. Old Zhou nodded. "That makes sense. The thing came out of the corner cage and went straight to you. It knows you now. Won't wander."
He was quiet for a moment, then said, "Watch your apartment the next few days. Strange water marks. Bells ringing. Things moving at night. It followed you. Wherever you go, it'll follow. Treat it well. It'll behave."
Old Zhou glanced back at me from the doorway before he left.
I closed the shop at noon and went home to sleep. Locked the door behind me. Stacked the delivery boxes from the floor onto the table. Put the toilet lid down. Pressed the bathroom sink stopper in. Checked the kitchen faucet three times.
Then I lay on the bed and closed my eyes. Right as I was drifting off, a splash came from the living room. Plop. Like something dropped into water. I opened my eyes. Listened. Silence. A car passed outside. I rolled over, didn't move. Too tired. My eyelids were heavy as lead.
Then — ding.
A bell. Sharp. Short. Like something had brushed against it. But there was no bell in the living room. I had never hung a bell in the living room.
I sat up fast. Under the bedroom door, a strip of light seeped in from the living room. And on the bedroom floor, a trail of water crept in from under the door. It spread into a small damp patch on the wood. In the center of that patch, a tiny bubble swelled and popped. Inside the water stain, I saw two shallow curved marks. Three of them, side by side.
Then, at the edge of the dampness, a small wet paw print slowly emerged. Four-petaled plum blossom. It stepped forward on the floor.
Step by step. Toward the foot of the bed. From the floor came a faint sound. Creak. Creak. Like tiny feet on wet ground. It stopped a foot from the bed.
The puddle spread wider. Its shape grew clearer. Slowly, I made it out. A curled-up silhouette. Small. Like a dog. Like a cat. Hunched on the floor. A ball of shadow and water.
Then I heard it again. Rumble. Purr. Soft. Coming from the center of that puddle. Steady. Content. Like something curled up, comfortable, purring.
It wasn't leaving. It had settled at the foot of my bed.
Outside, the sky was bright. The breakfast stall downstairs — oil sticks sizzling in the fryer. The bedroom was silent. A large puddle of water pooled on the floor. At its center: a purr. Thin. Faint.
I sat on the bed, looking down. Feet still off the floor. And suddenly I remembered A'Ju. Alive. Lying in her nesting box. Purring. Exactly like this sound. My throat tightened. Slowly, I lowered my feet. Set them on the floor. Inches from the puddle.
"Alright," I said. My voice was hoarse. "You can stay."
At the edge of the puddle, the water stirred. Like something stretched out. The purring grew a little louder.
Then it lay there, still and quiet. Never moved again.