Lydia has curated a sanctuary of solace within the suffocating confines of her inherited Victorian home, a self-imposed prison sealed shut by her debilitating agoraphobia. Her only companions, her entire world, are her six magnificent cats: the sleek, aloof Shadow; the plump, perpetually napping Mittens; the playful, curious Jasper; the serene, white-furred Luna; the mischievous, ginger Whiskers; and the ancient, one-eyed elder, Salem. Lydia dotes on them, her affection a desperate balm against the crushing loneliness and the terror of the world outside her front door.

But a new, far more insidious terror has begun to creep in with the lengthening shadows of dusk. At first, it's subtle: a guttural growl where a purr should be, eyes reflecting an unnatural, emerald glow in the deepening gloom. Then, the undeniable happens – as the last ray of sun dips below the horizon, her beloved pets morph. Their lithe forms contort, growing gaunt, their fur bristling with unseen energy. Claws elongate into razor talons, teeth sharpen into predatory fangs, and their familiar meows twist into unholy screeches. These are no longer her cats. They are flesh-hungry demons, their every instinct geared towards a single, chilling purpose: to tear and to consume.

Each night is a meticulously planned, agonizing ritual of survival for Lydia. She spends her days, fueled by stale coffee and terror-induced insomnia, fortifying her bedroom: barricading the door with antique furniture, taping over cracks, stuffing towels under the threshold. She has learned their patterns, their grotesque preferences. Whiskers, now a spindly, agile monster, enjoys scaling walls. Salem, twisted into a hulking, scarred beast, is a relentless battering ram. Luna, skeletal and ethereal, slips through impossible gaps.

The final scene sees Lydia, utterly broken but alive, staring out her window at the sunrise. The world still frightens her, but the terror within her home has subsided. Her six cats lie curled around her, purring, seemingly normal. But as the first hint of dusk begins to creep over the horizon, a single, emerald gleam flickers in Salem's ancient eye, and a low, almost imperceptible growl reverberates from the deepest part of his throat. The curse may be broken, but the memory, the potential, remains, a constant, chilling reminder that night-time, for Lydia, will never truly be safe again.