For the past few months, I couldn’t shake the unsettling feeling that I was being watched. It was subtle at first—barely noticeable things that could easily be explained away. I’d come home from work to find a light on in the hallway, one I was sure I’d turned off that morning. Doors that I always closed were slightly ajar. A glass that had been on the counter would somehow end up in the sink. Nothing major, nothing overtly threatening—just small inconsistencies that made me question my memory.
At first, I chalked it up to stress or exhaustion. Maybe I was just overworked, misremembering the little details. But then the noises started. Late at night, just as I was drifting off to sleep, I’d hear faint thumps or creaks coming from upstairs. Sometimes it sounded like something falling, other times like footsteps—soft but deliberate. It was always just enough to send a chill through me, yet never enough for me to find anything when I got up to check. The worst part? I live alone.
I tried to rationalize everything. Old houses make noises. Maybe the wind was blowing something over. Still, the unease grew. Then last week, it escalated. I woke up one morning to find muddy footprints on the floor—clear, wet prints that led from the back door through the hallway and into the kitchen. My breath caught in my throat. I checked all the locks. Nothing was broken or open. I didn't know what to think. I didn’t sleep much that night.
Then came yesterday.
I returned home from work like usual, only to feel something was... off the moment I stepped inside. The atmosphere felt different—like the house had been disturbed. I walked into the living room and froze. The coffee table had been moved a few feet to the side. The books on the shelves—meticulously arranged by genre and color—were completely jumbled. Some were even lying flat, stacked haphazardly. A picture frame was tilted. A throw pillow had vanished from the couch entirely.
That was it. I locked myself in my bedroom and called the police.
They arrived quickly, went through the house from top to bottom, inside and out. No signs of forced entry. No evidence of anyone hiding. Nothing. I was embarrassed, confused, and still afraid. As the officers prepared to leave, one of them lingered at the door. He gave me a strange look—half amusement, half sympathy—and said, “Ma’am, there’s no sign anyone’s been in here. But… I think I might know what’s going on.”
My heart skipped a beat as he leaned in slightly and asked, “Have you… checked on your cat?”
My mouth fell open.
And that’s when it hit me.
My cat.
The gremlin.
The pint-sized whirlwind of chaos who lives in my home rent-free and treats the entire house like her personal jungle gym. She’s the queen of knocking over books for no reason, dragging muddy things in from the yard, batting at light switches in the middle of the night, and opening doors just enough to make it creepy.
I stared at the officer, cheeks flushing with a mix of relief and embarrassment, and just muttered, “…Right.”
Mystery solved. There’s no ghost. No stalker. Just me and my furry, four-legged agent of chaos, living in a state of domestic mayhem. And honestly? I wouldn't have it any other way.