One night I woke up to an unfamiliar noise. Startled, I crawled out of bed, heart pounding, trying to figure out what had made a crash loud enough to yank me out of sleep. I opened my bedroom door and was immediately nearly taken out by my cats — both of them sprinting inside like they’d seen a ghost. They dove under the bed so fast I almost tripped over them.
Annoyed more than curious, I walked into the kitchen. The house was dark, and of course the light switch was on the opposite side of the room because this place was designed by someone who hated convenience. I didn’t see anything out of place. No broken dishes, no fallen shelves, no intruder. Just silence.
I checked the floors, the doors, the windows — nothing. So I went back to my room to deal with the next problem: getting Karma and Jinx out from under my bed. They were not cooperating. I tried calling them, bribing them, even gently sweeping near them like some kind of desperate cat‑eviction attempt. Nothing worked.
My frustration was rising. They aren’t allowed in my room — allergies turn a single cat hair on my pillow into a full‑body meltdown. But try explaining boundaries to cats named Karma and Jinx. They took it as a challenge. At 3 a.m. They darted around the room like tiny burglars, daring me to catch them.
Just when I was about to give up, they must’ve sensed my mood shift. They slipped out of the room as quietly as they’d stormed in.
I never did find out what caused the noise. But I was back under my covers, alive, breathing, and absolutely not investigating any further. Some mysteries can stay mysteries.
Bottom line, my cats decided to kill me that night and I wasn’t having it.
I’m not paid enough to solve paranormal cat emergencies,
K.
I'm Still Here. Somehow... 