Chapter 1: The Cat That Wasn’t Mine

I feel like there’s an extra pair of eyes in my home, watching me in the dark. Or maybe that’s just my nerves acting up.

Sometimes, when the wind rattles the windows at night, it’s like something’s hiding just out of sight. Under the bed, in the closet, behind the shower curtain—

Under the bed, in the closet, behind the shower curtain—sometimes I wonder: what if I actually looked? Would I really want to see what’s there?

Every time I walk through the house, I catch myself glancing over my shoulder, heart pounding, half-expecting to catch a flicker of movement. Even the hum of the fridge after midnight. Suspicious. Like a breath that isn’t mine.

But it didn’t used to be like this. It all started a month ago, when a coworker at my company jumped from the office building. The incident shook me. I decided to quit my job, and since my lease was up, I moved straight to a new city.

Just me and my cat. Maple Heights felt like a fresh start.

The first night, I remember Sunny, my cat, curling up in the moving box like he owned the place. At first, nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Except my cat would sit in the living room and meow at the window AC unit in the corner. I figured it was just getting used to the new place and didn’t think much of it. Maybe he was just catching the draft, or maybe he saw something I couldn’t. Who knows—cats are weird, right?

About two weeks after moving in, strange things started happening more and more often.

The cat suddenly got sick and had to be hospitalized. And I started waking up at night with a heavy pressure on my chest.

Sometimes, in my sleep, I’d feel someone open the door. Footsteps—slow, deliberate—approaching my bed. The comforter lifting, a cold, wet hand pressing against my lower abdomen. I’d jolt awake, gasping.

It felt so real, I shot upright in bed, heart racing. I turned on the light—no one was there. I ran to the living room and checked, but still found nothing. My heart pounded so loud I thought the neighbors might hear.

The showerhead in the bathroom started dripping. I opened the bathroom door and stared at the shadow behind the shower curtain, my hands and feet shaking so badly I thought I might drop the doorknob.

But when I pulled the curtain back, there was no one—just the showerhead dripping water. My reflection in the fogged-up mirror looked as rattled as I felt. For a second, I almost laughed at myself.

I let out a long sigh of relief, shoulders sagging as I leaned against the sink. God, I needed to chill.

It was probably just a loose valve. I took a video so I could get someone to fix it the next day. I tried to joke to myself, “Guess I’m not cut out for horror movies.” Ha. Who am I kidding?

The next morning, I went into the bathroom to wash up and noticed my toothbrush had been moved. Thinking about the leaking showerhead, I turned around and saw the shower curtain, which I’d left open, was closed again. The dripping sound had stopped. Weird. Did I dream the whole thing?

I lifted the curtain again. The showerhead that had been leaking last night was perfectly fine—not even a drop on the floor.

Back in the bedroom, I checked my phone for the video. Nothing. No video of the leaking showerhead from the night before.

Goosebumps prickled up and down my arms. My skin felt electric, like I’d walked through a spiderweb.

I didn’t even bother changing out of my pajamas. I just bolted out the door.

Mrs. Sanders next door was frying fish out back. When she saw me come out, she grinned and called, “Hey there! You went to bed at midnight last night and got up pretty early today.”

Maybe it was the smell of the fish, or just having someone else around, but I started to feel a little less creeped out. I walked over and asked, “Mrs. Sanders, has anything strange ever happened in this house?”

She kept frying fish as she replied, “Nope, nothing strange. We’ve all been on this block over twenty years.” The sizzle of oil and the warm, homey smell made the world seem normal for a moment.

Just then, the door to the house on the west side opened, and a tall man, maybe six-foot-three, came out, still sleepy. He yawned, rubbing his eyes. “Mom, what’s for breakfast?”

I remembered that when I moved in, there was no one in the house across from me. Mrs. Sanders had told me she only had a daughter, who was in grad school at State University.

Who was this man?

“Mrs. Sanders, didn’t you say you only had a daughter?” I asked, confused.

Mrs. Sanders and the young man looked at me in surprise.

“I’ve always only had a son,” Mrs. Sanders said.

The man smirked. “Maybe my mom just always says she wishes she had a daughter. You probably just misheard.”

But I was sure. The day after I moved in, Mrs. Sanders had told me her daughter was the same age as me and her name was Rachel.

My phone rang. It was the animal hospital.

“Hello, is this Ms. Parker?”

“This is she.”

“Maple Heights Animal Hospital. Your cat, Sunny, is ready to be picked up. When will you come by?”

I glanced at the time. It was 8:40. “Around ten o’clock,” I replied.

After hanging up, I went back inside. Washed up, changed clothes, got ready to head out.

When I opened my wardrobe, I noticed a light blue dress was missing. I’d bought it last month at a boutique and had only worn it once.

I tore the place apart, but it was just gone.

So I just picked something else at random. Whatever. Got dressed.

I drove to the animal hospital. The receptionist asked, “What’s your pet’s name?”

“Sunny.”

The receptionist flipped through the records. “An orange tabby cat, Sunny.”

But my cat is a British Shorthair golden shaded. I frowned. “Are you sure? My cat is a golden shaded, not an orange tabby.”

The receptionist double-checked. “Yeah, orange tabby. There’s even a photo of you holding the cat. See?” She turned the screen toward me, almost apologetic.

I took Sunny’s file and looked it over, confused. It was definitely my signature and my photo.

But my Sunny is a British Shorthair golden shaded, bought from a pet store three years ago. How could it have turned into an orange tabby after just one hospital stay?

Impossible. I know what my cat looks like. It’s definitely not an orange tabby. I said it again, firmer this time.

The hospital director heard the commotion and came downstairs. After a lot of back-and-forth, he finally brought out the surveillance video.

The footage showed me carrying an orange tabby cat into the animal hospital.

My legs went weak. I slumped into a chair. Doubting myself. “Impossible. I’ve had Sunny for three years—how could it be a tabby?”

“I want to call the police.”

After the police arrived and heard the situation, the surveillance footage was clear—I’d brought in an orange tabby. When I tried to pull up photos of Sunny on my phone, my album was empty—even the purchase record was gone.

The police tried to reassure me for about ten minutes, eventually convincing me to take the tabby cat home.

Behind me, the receptionist muttered, “She probably doesn’t know yet.”

The director shot her a look. “Hey, don’t say that.”

Back in the car, the cat in the passenger seat kept staring at me, with these big, sad eyes.

Yes, that’s right—I actually saw pity in a cat’s eyes. Its gaze was almost human, and it sent a chill up my spine.

“You’re not my cat, are you?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

The orange cat turned its head away and lay down. Just like that. Not interested.

I sighed and started the car, heading to the hospital. Maybe I really needed to get my head checked.

Why did everyone say I was remembering things wrong?

I went to several urgent care clinics, but none of them had psychiatric services. No one could help me figure out what was happening.

By the time I got home, it was three in the afternoon. I realized I hadn’t eaten all day. Yet I didn’t even feel hungry.

The orange cat lounged lazily on the sofa. It no longer yowled at the living room corner. It even slept belly-up, all four paws in the air.

I walked over and reached out to touch its belly. Strangely, its belly felt kind of hard—not soft and squishy like it should. Startled, I jerked my hand back and sat on the floor.

Again, I asked, “You’re not Sunny.”

This time, the orange cat just meowed lazily. Like it was bored with me.

After nightfall, that strange feeling returned. It crept up my spine, made my skin tingle.

I smelled a fragrance—a rich scent that didn’t make me uncomfortable. In fact, it made me feel so relaxed, as if my body was floating. Like I could just drift away right then.