An Open Letter to My Former Housemates
I knew the house was haunted when we moved in. It was obvious, and you would have known too if you’d learned any of the things I tried to teach you. Yes, I was able to train you to keep my dish full and the litter box clean, but anything beyond that was obviously futile. Sometimes I wonder why I even bothered…
But I digress.
It didn’t take long for signs even you could see to start appearing: strange rumblings in the pipes, odd creaks during the night, pieces of furniture being rearranged when no one was looking. But you chose to ignore it – or worse, to blame it on me. Me! Of all people.
But even I cannot make the walls bleed, though I plan to make a game attempt of it once I get to that family of mice nesting behind the wainscoting in the study. Couldn’t pin that one on me, could you? Couldn’t ignore it, either, especially when it started dripping out of the ceiling.
All right, I didn’t like that bit much myself, I admit. It took forever to clean out of my fur, and attracted the most annoying bugs. Which were fun to bat around, but really…oh, I’m but I’m digressing again, aren’t I?
It was almost noble the way you tried to tough it out, I’ll give you that, but really, in the end, leaving was the best choice. The house just didn’t like you, was going to learn to like you, and sooner or later the whole situation would have turned into one of those “mutually-assured destruction” scenarios your kind are so fond of. And where’s the dignity in that?
I was almost touched that you tried to find me on your way out. You had done a good job providing what care I allowed you to, after all, and it’s always difficult to properly domesticate replacements. But no one makes a cat go any place he doesn’t want to.
We’ve reached an accord, this spirit and I. I suspect it might have been lucky to’ve been a cat in life, for how else can I explain how crafty it was in tormenting you? Doors creak open whenever I wish to go outside and take the air, and there is never a shortage of rats and mice when I’m hungry. I’ve learned that a chair titled at just the right angle in the sun is the perfect location for my midday nap. And should I just, for a fleeting second, miss being petted, there is always the sensation of something running itself through my fur, just the way I like it.
I’d wish you well, but honestly, I don’t really care. You aren’t missed. I can only hope your next cat has better luck with you than I.
Sincerely,
Mr. Tims, Esq.
Rivka Jacobs
As a cat lover I have to say, one of your best stories yet, Matt. Really, really cool. Best touch is how you use first-person; structurally excellent choice, as you keep reader guessing. Also excellent choice to reveal “cat” identity not at end, as the point of the story, but in the middle, so reader is then re-directed to the full impact of the ghost story. Really nice job.
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Matt
Thank you! Something about a chair tipped on end like that, with a cat snoozing away on it, just said “ghost story.” And I liked the idea of a cat treating a ghost with the same disdain they can often treat their owners.
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