New pet owner here. I had been debating getting one for the longest time, just couldn’t figure out what kind. Finally settled on a cat, I figured they’d match my personality best. Don’t get me wrong, I like dogs too, but a cat seemed more fitting for my tastes.

I got him from an ad that I saw posted on a bulletin board at my local post office. I was checking my mail one day and it was just there on the board, smack dab in the middle of my face when I opened the door.

‘Kittens, free for a good home’

‘Call Maisel Miller, XXX-XXX-XXXX’

I found the coincidence oddly satisfying, though I suppose there’s always somebody trying to get rid of kittens at any given time. I just found it funny that I had finally decided on one and then BAM, the universe puts the opportunity in my face. Almost like how when you start talking about something within earshot of your smartphone and then you notice ads for it starting to pop up everywhere. Yeah, a real life… cat version… of that.

I called the number and the lady who answered was very kind. Ms. Miller sounded like she were 110 years old and was very polite, if not a little hard of hearing. She informed me that her cat, Mittens, had only just given birth. It would be a couple of months before they were old enough to eat on their own, and until that time were completely reliant on their mother and her milk. She had put up the flier in hopes that by that time, she would have enough people wanting one to be able to give them all away.

I was hoping to get one sooner than that. I had already made up my mind that I wanted a cat, and to put it off and wait two whole months seemed like the ultimate test of my patience. I can barely wait for my food to finish cooking to eat it most days, let’s just say patience isn’t one of my strong suits. In the end, I agreed though. She wrote my number down and said she would give me a call whenever she thought that they were ready.

Those two months were pure torture. I couldn’t stop thinking about my new kitten, and once again the universe pulled its ad campaign trick. It seemed like everywhere I turned, every TV show or video that I watched, I kept seeing cats. I couldn’t go a single day without seeing something that reminded me that I would have one of my own soon, but not soon enough. Not for me and my impatience.

When she finally did contact me, I snatched up my keys and raced out of the door so fast. I probably broke a traffic law or two on the way there. I found myself wondering what my new little kitty looked like, if he/she had any cute distinguishing marks or splotches of fur that set it apart from its siblings. My excitement was palpable.

I arrived at a small cottage of a house. It looked idyllic. Had a mountain range and a lake been in the background, it could have been a Thomas Kinkade painting. The place looked absolutely pristine, not a speck of dirt stained the short white picket fence, nor a single blade of grass longer than any other. As I crossed the yard toward the front door, I was impressed at the level of perfection in every little detail. Not a leaf in sight, despite the towering maple tree in the side yard, the flowers in the beds under her front windows bright and beautiful. I walked up her front steps and looked down to a doormat and smiled. ‘Wipe Your Paws’ it read.

She opened the door before I could even knock, and thrust a small kitten into my arms before I could even react. I took the cat on sheer reflex. Before I knew it she had quickly shut the door and I was left alone on her stoop, a small black and white kitten mewling and trying to climb up my shirt. I heard a multitude of locks being engaged. I didn’t know how I’d quite expected this to go, but this was the last way I could have guessed. I totally expected a friendlier exchange, invited in for a cup of tea and a chat. Get to see the momma cat and the other kittens. Not whatever it was that had just happened. Not knowing what else to do aside from straight up just leaving, I knocked on the door.

“Ms. Miller? Is everything alright?” I shouted when there was no answer.

“No refunds!” I heard her yell, muffled from just inside the door.

“No refunds?” I repeated. The cat was free, why would she expect me to ask for a refund. There was nothing TO refund.

“No ma’am, I don’t want to give her back. Is it a her? I don’t know how to tell. No, I just wanted to have a chat. This is my first cat, you see? Maybe any pointers or tips you could give me on how best to take care of her… him… it?” I shouted at the closed door.

Why was she acting so damn strange? Over the phone she seemed like such a sweet old lady, I hadn’t gotten too good of a look at her in the split second she was thrusting the animal in my arms, but I did notice the heavy bags under her eyes, her white hair all astray, her whole appearance disheveled.

There were a few moments of silence, when finally I heard the locks being slowly unlatched. The door opened a couple of inches, as far as the chain lock, still engaged near the top of the door, would allow. Her tired wrinkled face peered out at me.

“That cat is yours now. I won’t take her back. Yes, it is a her… and as far a pointers and tips, use that internet you kids nowadays are so fond of. I apologize for acting so… odd, but believe me when I say you need to take very good care of her…” she paused as if remembering a crucial detail or deeply considering something. There was a strange look on her face, was it fear?

“Stay right here, I will be right back” she commanded.

She quickly shut the door, then a locking of the dead bolt could again be heard. I was left standing there on her stoop in complete confusion. What was this old woman's deal, I wondered? She had been nothing but polite during every exchange I had had with her up until this point, granted they had all been over the phone, but still. Remembering back to when my grandparents were still alive, I recalled that toward the end, the ravages of age had taken a heavy toll on them. My grandfather especially, with his dementia, could be a serious handful at times. He had his good days, and his bad ones. The bad ones, well, they were exceptionally horrendous.

“Poor Ms. Miller…” I thought to myself, that had to be it. Hopefully she still had a family to help her often. Looking at how immaculate the yard work and the upkeep of it was so well tended to, I assumed this was the case. Still though, the sunset years of life could get rough.

I must have stood on that porch for five minutes or more. I was just about to knock again, thinking that she had possibly forgotten about me, when I heard the lock. The door opened its maximum that the chain would allow once more, and a wrinkled, arthritic, and liver splotched hand thrusted out. It was holding a note, yellow and neatly folded. She waved it several times in impatience until I carefully took it from her grasp. No sooner than it was no longer in her possession, the hand withdrew and the door was shut, producing a SLAM despite the short distance it had to travel to do so.

That was the end of our exchange. I tried to knock on the door once more, but was only greeted by a curt “GO AWAY, OR I’LL CALL THE COPS!” I took the hint, and made my departure. I hadn’t even looked at the note, slipping it in a pocket and heading back to my car.

The whole ride home, I couldn’t get my mind off of the poor older woman. It truly made me sad, how once we reach a certain point in our lives, it was only downhill from there. Our best days behind us. Looking down at the beautiful black and white kitten riding calmly in my lap, its large almond shaped eyes staring up at me, made the entire bittersweet experience worth it, in my mind.

I decided to name her Clementine, and together we rode off into the sunset. New best friends forever, I thought to myself. She is a short-haired black cat, with several distinguishing patches of white on her chin, feet, and going down her spine.

The problems started the day I brought her home when I couldn’t get her to eat anything. I had read that sometimes young kittens will refuse regular food, opting instead for its mother’s milk. They eventually get weaned off the stuff and begin eating wet food. I tried a multitude of different brands and flavors all to no avail. Expensive stuff and cheap stuff alike. Little saucers of milk, whole, 2%, skim, even goat milk, almond milk, oat milk, cream. Nothing worked. After a couple of days I was beginning to become worried. I had decided one morning that if she still hadn’t touched any of it by the time I got off work that afternoon, I’d take her to a veterinarian.

When I got home later that day, she was nowhere to be found inside my house. Calling her name I tore the place apart, lifting furniture and checking in every little nook and cranny, everywhere a small animal could slip under or behind.

Frustrated and worried, I stepped out back to get some fresh air. She came running up to me from around the corner as soon as I stepped outside. Relieved, I scooped her up and nuzzled her to my cheek. She was sleek and wet on my face, and when I examined her thoroughly, my fingers came away wet and red. Blood. Not only had she somehow managed to Houdini her way out of my house, but she was hurt, I thought. Checking, I couldn’t find any wounds on her.

My prodding and checking every inch of her seemed to make her uncomfortable, and she jumped from my arms and ran back behind the corner she had just appeared from behind. I gave chase, I wasn’t going to lose her again. When I turned the corner there she was, standing over the corpse of my neighbor’s pitbull, Duke. His entrails were spilling out of his abdomen as he lay there, dead in a puddle of his own blood. Duke was a big dog, muscular and at least ten times as large as my little Clementine. In shock at the gruesome sight before me, I froze, Clementine’s small tongue lapping up the blood all the while.

I buried the dog there in my backyard. I never told my neighbors, they loved that dog like a child. My first thoughts were that some sicko had killed and gutted the dog, and dumped it over my fence. Something told me that that wasn’t quite right though, and while at the time I couldn’t bring myself to believe that my little Clementine had somehow managed to eviscerate an animal that by every right could have crushed her little body with a single bite, I knew that she had been responsible.

Time would prove me right, as the unmarked pet cemetery in my backyard over the coming months grew. Big dogs, small dogs, rabbits, squirrels, but never another cat, I noticed. And there were plenty of other cats in the neighborhood, even more so now. Back before I got Clementine, the other neighbors on my street may have had a total of four cats between all of them. Now there were still four, five counting Clem I guess, but the strays that showed up came out of nowhere. There were dozens of them. They weren’t a nuisance or anything, never for my house anyway, but just the sheer number of felines in the surrounding neighborhood was bonkers.

My next door neighbor Jim thinks that some cat lady must have moved in down the block. I don’t have the heart to tell him what I think. He’d think I was crazy. It’s okay though Jim, I think I’m going crazy too.

The way they act is what I found curious. Maybe other people just don’t pay enough attention or maybe it’s because my house seems to be the focal point and that gives me a unique perspective, but I see what they’re doing. How sometimes in the early afternoon, several of them will wait at the edge of my yard. They sit there and hang back, eyes intent on my windows. When Clementine eventually jumps up and occupies her favorite spot on the inside window sill, they come up to meet her, one at a time. They will sit there, pane of glass separating them, and stare at one another. Sometimes briefly, sometimes for several minutes, but when the staring contest is over, the outside cat will usually jerk their head away and do that spine shiver thing that they do sometimes. I know it sounds crazy, but it’s as if little Clem had them under a spell of some kind. Then, the next cat will come up and do the same. Sometimes it goes on for hours. I swear it’s like ‘all the lords and wise men coming to look upon the baby Jesus’ vibes. I found it amusing at first, but it has since grown creepy.

As she grew, she got better at her little Houdini tricks. I swear that cat can walk through walls, locked doors and pet carrier crates can’t hold her. I don’t mean like those cats you see on the internet either, the ones that you see videos of jumping and grabbing the doorknob and using gravity to turn it and open the door. No, like she actually walks through walls. I’ve never seen her do it, but that’s the only explanation I can come up with.

I tested it once, I put her in her pet carrier and sat and watched. I watched for damn near 45 minutes, and the whole time she just calmly sat there watching me through the little slits. When I finally gave in to my bladder and got up to relieve myself, she was sitting next to it when I came back. I swear her eyes were defiant, maybe even a little mocking. She sat there just long enough to shoot that look, then she victoriously swaggered away, off to clean herself on my clean laundry. She does what she wants.

All the time, I get these feelings and suspect her of something, but I never actually SEE her doing anything. All the dead animals, I’ve never SEEN her kill them, she’s always just there drinking their blood or eating little chunks. How she manages to escape her cage or turn up in locked rooms or even get outside on her own, I’ve never SEEN her walk through walls. I’ve never SEEN her do anything that any other cat wouldn’t do.

I just get these feelings. They usually come after I ‘wake up’ in the middle of a room. I just got up off the couch and walked into this room, I saw myself do it, but why? I can’t for the life of me remember, I remember I knew why at the time, I didn’t just stand up like a mindless zombie and walk in here for nothing, right? It never used to happen, not before I got Clementine, and now I catch myself doing it at least twice a week. I usually chalk it up to stress from work, or having a lot on my mind at the time, just getting spacey as I get older, but sometimes when I look at Clementine I get the feeling like she knows why. She knows why I just got up and walked in here, she knows because she was the one that told me to do it.

God, I know this all sounds crazy. If anybody that I know somehow manages to read this they’d probably have me locked up, and for my own good. The fact that I think it’s crazy is probably a good sign, crazy people don’t know they are crazy, right? Ah, shit. I’m talking to myself out loud again. I gotta remember to stop doing that so much. You think it’s okay when nobody is around and then you get in the habit of doing it, and before you know it you forget and are doing it in public. I swear, it’s like Tourettes, things I’m not even thinking just blurt out of my mouth. I will NOT have a repeat of what happened at the vet clinic, not again.

The one time I took Clementine to the vet, it was a whole debacle. I managed to keep Clem in the pet carrier, which was a whole thing in itself (I had to have a taxi drive us because I couldn’t. The only way I could keep her in the kennel was by watching her the whole time). When we got there and were in the waiting room, two dogs that had been cool with each other up until that point began viciously trying to kill each other.

Even the animals in the back started going wild. Dogs were breaking their teeth trying to chew through the metal bars of their pens, birds flapping their wings threateningly, one having a grasp of the English language crying “Devil spawn! Devil spawn!” Some metalhead punk with a pet parakeet, I saw. Neat thing to teach a bird, asshole. Even somebody's fish trying to bash its brains in by swimming in full force against the walls of a plastic bag. The only animals that weren’t losing their shit were the cats. Cool as cucumbers, I swear I even saw one give Clementine a nod, as if out of respect.

The exam in the back went well enough, at first. We were in a small room with the vet and one of the assistants. Clementine was healthy, despite her diet of fresh carcass and the blood of her enemies, and after she got her shots the visit was almost over.

Then the vet asked if I thought about getting her spayed. The words ‘GO FUCK YOURSELF’ came out of my mouth so quickly, it was as if I weren’t even the person speaking it. I hadn’t even had time to process what the vet had asked when it burst from my lips. The vet, only slightly taken aback, persisted though, about overpopulation and the stray cat problem locally we had been having lately, he was really trying to sell it.

He was right in the middle of his spiel about responsible pet ownership, when he just stopped mid sentence. He stood there, staring blankly off into the fluorescent lights a moment, before he turned around, opened a drawer, and pulled out a scalpel. If the police ask, we left the room AFTER he had carved his own tongue out, but BEFORE he castrated himself. The assistant was calling for more help to restrain the poor man as we walked out the door, animals going wild around us. I swear Clem seemed smug the rest of that day, more smug than cats usually are, I mean.

With all of the little things that freaked me out adding to the ever growing list of huge red flags, I finally realized something I had forgotten. For weeks I had this feeling like I was forgetting something. Ever since that day I picked Clementine up from Mrs. Miller, in fact. That’s when I remembered the note! Mrs. Miller had given me a note, right before she essentially said ‘no take backs’ and threatened to call the cops on me.

I tore my place apart looking for what I did with that damn note. Given all of the odd experiences I had since I got this cat, I was beginning to understand Mrs. Miller’s attitude toward the whole affair. I mean, yeah, getting old sucks and everything is downhill, but I’m sure it doesn’t help either to have a spawn of hell given birth to by your house pet.

When I finally found it, yellowed and crinkled, it was ruined. Apparently I hadn’t checked my pockets thoroughly enough when I did my laundry that week, and it had gone through the cycle in my back pocket. It was ruined, deteriorated beyond recognition. The outside folds of it tore to shreds in my delicate attempt to unfold it, the only part not ruined was a scrap on one of the inner folds, but the water had made most of the ink run. The best I could do interpreting it makes no sense.

“-h-pa-abra -s -e-l” is one portion semi-legible.

“d-mo-s --es c-- k--l” is the other.

The rest of it is ruined.

I tried calling her several times but there’s never an answer. I went to her house once afterward and an older man was out front, cutting her lawn. I got his attention and got him to shut the motor off so he could hear me, and asked him if Mrs. Miller was home. It was her son. The way he took his cap off and covered his heart with it while telling me she had been committed showed his deep sympathy.

He told me it started a few months back when she had just started slowly losing it, little things at first, forgetful things. When it took a turn for the worse she began talking crazy. Insane things, like how her cat was talking to her, making her do things. Kittens with demonic lineages, she raved. He told me that she went as far as cutting out her own eyes.

“That’s how they control you”, she’d say.

He told me how she said lots of crazy things, and then broke his somber countenance for a moment to give a slight chuckle. “You wanna know what the craziest thing she said?” he asked, clearly amused through his grief.

“Sure” I replied, steeped in dread.

“She claimed that a chupacabra had r… uhh… impregnated… her cat. Swore it up and down, even on Sundays” he said, replacing his hat and hopping back on his mower.

My little Clementine still has a lot of growing to do. I’m just glad that for now, at least, I’m on her good side. I’m sure I’ll have quite a few more stories to tell, given time.

Until then, new pet owner here, signing off.

​

Part 2: https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/zjakaa/my_cat_isnt_normal_2/