The Third Meow

In the quiet town of Bhargavpur, tucked between two forgotten hills and a cursed river, an urban legend whispered itself from mouth to mouth. No one knew when it started, only that every few years, a cat came.

Not an ordinary cat.

It moved like wet smoke, its black fur shifting like oil. At precisely 2:03 AM, it would appear at a random household’s front door, sit on its haunches, and meow.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

If milk wasn’t placed before it by the third meow, the curse would begin.

They said it didn't walk—it slithered in feline form. They said it didn’t meow—it invoked.

The Sinha family had only just moved into Bhargavpur. Ravi Sinha, a government schoolteacher, relocated with his wife Anjali, their teenage son Karan, and Ravi’s elderly mother Dadi. They laughed at superstitions. City folk, always logical.

On their eighth night in the town, as the clock hit 2:03 AM, a scraping sound came from outside the door. Not scratching. Scraping, like claws on stone.

Then came the first meow.

Long. Echoing.

It didn't sound like a call. It sounded like a warning.

Anjali stirred in bed, her skin crawling. Her ears rang.

The second meow followed. This time, it sounded...closer. She sat up, heart thudding like footsteps on wood. Through the curtains, she saw it.

A cat. No, a thing shaped like a cat. Blacker than night, eyes like inverted moons. It stared directly at their door.

Then—

Meow.

The third.

A silence thicker than breath followed.

No milk had been offere.

In the morning, no one spoke of the sound. Maybe they all dreamed it. But Anjali felt off. She retched in the sink, the bile thick and dark. She hadn't missed her period yet. But she knew.

By evening, the test confirmed it.

"You're pregnant," Ravi said, surprised. “That’s…impossible.”

She was on birth control. They hadn’t made love in months. And yet...

The doctor in town dismissed it casually, "A blessing! Sometimes, fate decides."

But by the seventh day, Anjali’s belly was already bulging.

Karan stopped eating his usual food.

He was found in the kitchen at midnight, his mouth stuffed with raw fish, blood dripping down his chin, eyes unblinking. He hissed when Dadi touched him.

Ravi began crawling on all fours at night. At first sleepwalking, then consciously. He said it felt “right.”

Dadi… just sat by the window and purred.

Hair grew rapidly across their arms, backs, and even on their faces. Karan’s canines lengthened, and he began licking his skin.

Once, Anjali entered the bathroom and found Ravi and Dadi hunched together on the floor, lapping from the toilet bowl.

She screamed. They looked up at her slowly, pupils slitted, mouths smeared with saliva and something else.

Ravi whispered, “It’s warm. It’s better than milk.”

On the 21st day, Anjali woke to something else. Sounds.

Low moans. Wet thuds. Skin against fur.

She walked to the living room and saw it: Karan and Dadi—naked, twisted, writhing in an animalistic act, limbs wrong, bodies twitching unnaturally.

Ravi watched from the corner, stroking his own body like a cat grooms its fur, eyes gleaming with joy.

She screamed, backing away. But no one responded.

They had forgotten words.

Only meows came now.

Anjali's belly now looked eight months full, though not even a month had passed. The creature inside her scratched. She felt it move with intelligence, like it was watching her from within.

Mirrors cracked when she passed them.

Milk turned black in her presence.

The town began whispering. Neighbors avoided them. And the cat, the cursed one, was nowhere to be seen again.

On the 28th day, her water broke.

The house reeked of fish, fur, and blood.

She fell to the floor as the others circled her, not helping, only watching with wide, moist eyes, tails flicking behind them.

Yes—they now had tails.

Karan licked her face as she screamed in pain. Ravi purred and rubbed against her side. Dadi let out a long, guttural growl.

The birth was unnatural. The creature crawled out, not head-first, but tail-first, claws dragging down her flesh.

It wasn’t a baby.

It was a black kitten—with human eyes.

Her eyes.

It spoke, not in voice, but in thoughts:

> "Mother. I am home."

She passed out.

The next morning, the Sinha house was silent.

Neighbors gathered after not hearing anything for days.

The door creaked open.

No one was inside.

No blood. No bodies. No kitten. Just…

A bowl of milk, spilled at the doorway.

Claw marks along the floor.

And a single strand of fur, long and black, moving slightly though there was no wind.

The house was abandoned by sunset.

Three years later, a new family moved into Bhargavpur.

They laughed at the town’s stories.

They brought a young daughter and a dog.

On their eighth night, as the clock struck 2:03 AM, the scraping began.

Outside their door, sat a black cat.

But this time, its eyes were green, and its tail twitched rhythmically.

Meow.

Once.

Meow.

Twice.

Inside, the girl’s mother stirred in bed, blinking.

What was that sound?

Then came the third meow.

Too late.

No one knows where the Sinha family went. But sometimes, if you visit the edge of Bhargavpur on certain nights, you may hear it:

A low, lingering meow from the shadows.

And if you look closely, behind the trees, in the dark…

You may see them.

Four cats, sitting in a line.

And a woman holding a kitten, her eyes wide, her smile frozen.

Watching.

Waiting.

For the next door.

> “Always leave out the milk. Before the third meow.”