Curiosity Killed the Cat

When I moved into my new home, I was careful. I was ready for anything.

But not this.

The place was built in the 40s, after all, and that’s plenty of time. Nearly 80 years for someone to live and die here. Not all of us pass on, you know. Some stick around.

And when that happens, I can see them. It’s fine. I’m used to it.

All of the ghosts I’d seen before had been chill. There was a little kid who used to just hang out and point to the fridge, wanting some juice. There was a farmhand, who looked confused that his cornfield was now the site of a suburban home. They’d show up like strangers on the bus: a brief nod, no eye contact, no conversation. I’d respect them and they’d respect me, in the way of respect where we just ignore each other.

The cat was different. It had an agenda.

I didn’t realize how twisted that agenda would be.

I noticed it on the stairs when I was cleaning up the thick layer of dust underneath, left by years of folks thundering down without regard for what their feet disturbed. The landlord really should’ve had it cleaned up before we moved in, but at this price point? I’d sweep it myself.

As I ducked under the staircase, I noticed… a glitch. That’s what it is, sometimes, just a little bit of motion or something like bad CGI layered over reality. I stopped to look. I thought it was the actual real flesh and blood cat, but she was upstairs. There was nothing there.

I went back to sweeping out the basement. There was a concerning amount of what seemed to be actual soil, had it flooded here before? I knew a pipe had burst at one point. Maybe this was just what had sifted in through the ground-level windows, set high in the wall and letting in a weak light.

Meow.

Ah, the cat had come to join--no. She was still upstairs, and the presence was back. I could see it more clearly now. It was a spectral cat, peeking over the side of the stairs at me. It meowed again.

I shook out of my surprise just enough to answer. “Hey there,” I said. “Hello, pretty kitty.” Like I said, respectful, so the ghosts don’t wreck your shop.

The cat stretched hugely, then chirped contentedly and trotted down the stairs.

I wasn’t at all sure what I was supposed to… do? About this? I didn’t exactly have a chapter in Renting for Dummies or a clause in the lease about Interactions With the Resident Ghost Cat. The cat sniffed at my pant leg experimentally. I tried not to shiver from its cold breath.

After a moment, I made a decision. I’d just keep sweeping, and let the ghost cat work itself out. What was it gonna do, make ghost biscuits? It was a cat, it was fine.

I didn’t think.

I didn’t expect it to show me… what it did.

I didn’t expect a silly little ghost cat on the basement stairs to ruin everything.

The problem with trying to ignore a cat, ghost or otherwise, is that it’s fully impossible. The cat makes sure of that. This one meowed with every sweep of the broom, batted little incorporeal paws at my shoelaces, and generally got completely underfoot unless--

The only time it let me be was when I stepped back, away from the stairs.

I went back to sweeping. It hissed.

Here’s the thing? A normal cat hissing is one thing, but I was not about to stand around making a ghost cat hiss. Who knows what it might do? Knock everything off every table, probably, and that’s for a start. Sharp little claws were also presumably on the menu.

“Listen,” I tried. “You gotta let me sweep, but I can give you pets first, is that what you want? Scritches?” I leaned the broom against the stairs and reached a hand out, then yanked it back as the cat’s ears flattened and it hissed again. Nope. It didn’t want scritches. “Okay,” I conceded. “No scritches, message received.”

I picked up the broom again and started to sweep. The cat bonked its head against my ankle. I leaned the broom against the stairs again. “What do you want, kitty?” I asked in frustration.

The cat bonked me again, and I stepped back. It pushed at me, goading me toward the pile of boxes and furniture left by the previous tenants.

It wasn’t a big pile, but when we’d moved in we’d found a handful of old, cheap furniture pieces and cardboard boxes and random things like dryer vent hoses. We’d stuck it in a pile out of the way, in a corner of the basement boxed in by our own storage totes. The cat was bullying me straight for the old desk.

It was just some sort of cheap flatpack desk, mostly particle board with a light metal frame. A couple of drawers, a little cupboard; it was adequate, just unnecessary. I assumed the drawers were empty or maybe full of dust and cobwebs.

The ghost cat hopped up on the desk, swiping its paw at the drawer on the left. I turned to go back to the stairs, only to have the cat meow emphatically.

“What? What’s in there, ghost catnip?” I asked. I pulled the drawer open.

And that’s when I saw it. The plain, thoroughly ordinary spiral notebook that contained the words that brought back memories, things I hadn’t thought about in years. That book must’ve been left there by some sadist, some absolute monster who’d hand written the one short phrase that would seal my doom.

Obviously I had no idea. So I opened it.

The cover was blank, faded red and advertising 70 sheets of wide ruled paper. The spiral held the remnants of torn out pages, yet still seemed to have all 70. I glanced down at the first page, then tore it out in horror as I read the words, only for them to appear on the next page.

And the next. And the next. No matter how many pages I tore out, I couldn’t escape the phrase, written in neat block letters:

YOU JUST LOST THE GAME.

I put it back in the drawer. I’m leaving it for the next tenant.