The Whitmore Arms was not a place people moved into willingly. It loomed at the end of Ashbury Street, its stone walls blackened with age, its windows glowing faintly at night as though the building itself breathed. Tenants came and went, sometimes in the span of a single evening, whispering that the halls shifted when you weren’t looking, that doors locked themselves from the outside, and that the stairwell carried footsteps even when it was empty.
But anyone who lasted more than a single night soon learned that the true terror of Whitmore Arms wasn’t the building. It was the eyes.
Green, unblinking, and always watching.
The eyes belonged to Mr. Fuzz.
No one could say when he first appeared. Some swore he had always been there, stalking the foundation before the bricks were laid. Others believed he was a former tenant who never left—though how a cat became a shadowy sentinel was a question better left unasked.
Mr. Fuzz did not greet newcomers. He studied them. His padded steps echoed faintly down the long hallways, claws clicking just enough to remind you that you weren’t alone. His tail flicked from the darkness of the laundry room. His silhouette stretched across doorways, slipping away the moment you turned your head.
At night, the test began.
If you woke to find those glowing green eyes in the corner of your room, you knew you were being judged. You had to remain still. Any sudden movement, any sign of fear, and Mr. Fuzz would vanish. Not out the door, not under the bed, just simply gone. And when he disappeared, the building itself turned against you: doors slammed shut, the air grew cold, and the shadows crowded closer.
But if you held your ground, if you dared meet his gaze, something remarkable happened.
The shadows recoiled. The air warmed. And Mr. Fuzz would leap silently onto the bed, curl up beside you, and purr. It was not a normal purr, but a low, thrumming vibration that sank into your bones and soothed every nerve in your body. It was approval.
And once you had Mr. Fuzz’s approval, you were safe. The stairwells stopped groaning. The windows held only moonlight, not faces staring back. Even the doors seemed lighter on their hinges, as if eager to welcome you instead of trap you.
Those who survived a night at Whitmore Arms carried a strange badge of honor. They left with stories no one believed and a lingering warmth at their ankles, as though the ghostly cat still brushed against them. But when they spoke of the experience, their words were always the same:
"Mr. Fuzz Approves."
Dare to test your luck?
Not everyone survives a night at Whitmore Arms. But for those who do, there’s only one mark that matters. 🐾
✨ Grab the gothic tee or sweatshirt and show the world that you earned Mr. Fuzz’s approval..
