Stuck

I felt something lingering over me. It touched my elbow as I dusted off the teacups. I could hear it buzz as I folded the laundry. It pulled a hair from my head as I mopped the floors.

I tried to ignore it, but it was persistent. I couldn't deny it: I felt a clever presence. So I opened the windows. I needed fresh air. Perhaps sunlight would appease my mind; perhaps it would wake me from my stupor. It was the dead of summer. The heat from outside was choking, like something wrapping its claws around your neck and squeezing you. It was a sticky and steamy summer.

I went outside to the garden. Watered the dying plants, pleaded to God for some salve to save the crisping flora. No matter where I went, whether inside or outside, I felt like someone was watching me.

But it was just me, my cat Remmy, and the blackbirds soaring over the field. Those scavengers searching for the dead, pretending they're psychopomps. I liked living away from people. It made it easier to be with my thoughts. . .

I started my days off by playing the violin. I made faces in the mirror, sang in the bathtub, and danced with the cat. I'd hold him, and he'd rest his paws and head on my shoulder. I kept myself busy and optimistic. Once things got too quiet, I could hear the humming. I could see the little squiggles in my eyes. I'm certain that's just aging. And because I'm aging, I probably feel a presence in the house.

I live 40 miles outside of town. It's not the easiest house to find. You have to know your way; it's past a popular vineyard, then a right onto a winding path that goes up a hill, and then a long drive past a field.

One afternoon, when I went to wash the dishes, I could hear clinking from somewhere. The noise sent shivers down my spine. I thought my cat had gotten into one of the cabinets. He does that from time to time. I let the thought of something more harrowing fade from me. There were plenty of chores to be done; I hadn't been attending to the house because I was busy seeing my new boyfriend.

It had been a month since I dedicated my time to seriously tidying up the place. That was too long, I know. Perhaps the house had missed me, and maybe that's why it creaked more than usual. There were unrecognizable sounds. There were indescribable smells.

After cleaning the house, I went to go put my hair up, and that's when I heard the creaking again. I was about to slip into a black dress when it seemed like a door had opened. I heard a howling outside. Coyotes do live in the nearby woods.

So in the black dress, I went to the doorway—it was ajar. The hinges loose on the screws. The doorknob was rolling down the street. I didn't want to chase after it. I was trying to prepare myself for the night. I was in my robe and slippers. But I stopped caring so much about my looks, and I chased after the doorknob, and when I caught it, I looked down the street and a man with an unusual hat, his attire like something from the Victorian era. . . this man was limping down the road. He was tall and gangly. He had a light blue glow to him.

I wasn't sure how to feel. I thought maybe my mind was playing tricks on me. Is that a ghost? Or is the lighting just really bad?

After marrying the doorknob back to the front door, I went back inside, and just as I was about to pin up my hair—I realized I didn't know where my cat was hiding. And I feared the worst—that he sprinted out the door. I couldn't handle the thought that the man had taken my cat with him. I ran back outside and yelled. I yelled for the cat over and over. But all that returned were echoes. I badly wanted to see my feline friend.

I searched in the garden, my neck was dripping with sweat, and my hands were dirty. I pressed into the ground—looking between the plants for my precious Remmy. Nothing but worms and fallen tomatoes.

When I got inside, I realized I had forgotten to turn off the sink. It was overflowing. I turned it off fast, washed my face, and tried to restart the rituals we all do before a date.

But this time I did hear the meowing; it sounded like it was in the attic. There was no possible way he could have gotten up there. I didn't have enough time to go up there and pull him down. I figured if he found a way up, then he could find a way down.

So I decided to drink a warm cup of jasmine tea. I needed a moment to calm myself before my boyfriend arrived. I needed to find my calm because I kept having these thoughts, these paranoid thoughts that the seams around my house were loosening, and I was about to realize I'm just a doll in some little girl's toy collection.

But things only got more queer. The lights died off one by one. Don't get me wrong, there was enough sunlight that I didn't need to worry too much. I went to the breaker box, flipped the switches. All the lights came back on. I checked every single room to make sure there wasn't a faulty room. My guest room's lights wouldn't turn on—and I could hear the meowing up above. It got louder and louder. I wished with every fiber of my being that he would find his way down.

I didn't have time to get to him. I wasn't in the mood for an attic adventure. I only had 15 minutes, then my boyfriend would be picking me up. I went to the garage again and flipped the breakers—but the guest bedroom lights were stubborn. This room with no windows. . . without the hall light, it persisted in its pitch black ways. It was a black void with the sounds of my cat meowing and hissing.

I didn't feel right in the room. There was a draft, and I felt it had a musty smell. I ambled through the dark room with my arms stretched out before me. I avoided colliding with the walls and furniture. I was trying to make my way to the closet. I thought it would be wise to check the closet light. It's on the same breaker, so maybe the guest room light just needs to be replaced. I could tell my boyfriend, and he could get his ladder. Everything could be solved with a new light bulb. He could also help me get the cat out of the attic. . . I really didn't need to worry.

Everything was going to be okay. Everything would sort itself. At least that's what you tell yourself when your senses get overwhelmed. I was definitely more than overstimulated by this old house. . .

The closet was also dark. I reached for the light switch but could't find it. I walked into the closet space, searching deeper and deeper for the light switch, but I never found it. I turned to find the door, but it wasn't in reach anymore. The cat was screaming at this point. The creaking sound from earlier got louder and louder.

I wasn't sure what to think or do. I felt everywhere for the doorknob, and at last when I found it—it was locked from the other side. I crumbled to my knees. I started laughing hysterically. The only way out was if my boyfriend came into the house and found me in the guest room. Oh, God! Could he find me? Would he think to look in this room?

My imagination started taking me to elaborate places; I felt this strong fear that someone was in the closet with me and was about to touch me or whisper in my ear.

I tried to quiet my mind. I tried not to panic. Come on, think of rosebuds and kites and sunshine! Maybe the cat found its way to the attic by climbing through a space in this very closet. I meant to hold onto hope, but the longer I stayed, the more I felt like I was on the verge of hallucinating. . . I didn't want my boyfriend to think I was ghosting him. I didn't want to lose my cat. I didn't want to lose my mind.

I screamed. I screamed as loud as I possibly could. I wanted to scream so loud that my neighbors would find me.

But the clever thing is during this awful, anxious episode. . . something muzzled my mouth! I couldn't get my screams out.

Something from the closet wrapped itself around me. The thing behind the creaking noise: it was with me in the closet. I felt the cloth; I felt the chloroform. I drifted into a deep, dark sleep. I kept having visions of a man with a sly smile. He was wearing late 1800s clothes. I kept trying to figure out his eye color. Were they brown? Hazel? Were those eyes before me purple? Red?

Then it hit me. Those noises upstairs weren't my cat. I now knew my cat escaped out the front door. The noises upstairs were of a woman. Those noises drowning out the house were my own screams! And this black dress wasn't for my date night. I was dead and dressed in the black sheets of nothingness.

I was repeating it all in my mind over and over again. Trapped in the closet. Feeling how he began with nibbling on my ear two centuries ago. In the closet. All before another family with a cat moved into the house—the house some distance from the vineyard, past the hill, and past the field. They added electricity. They upgraded the furniture. But the session in the closest, it wasn't before my husband found out I was planning to meet someone else one summer night.