Chapter 18
With Brynn and Madison hauling me off to Chicago as often as they humanly can, I barely have time to throw myself a proper pity party.
Though I suspect they know that. The week goes by faster than I expect it to, thanks to them, and when I finally pry myself away from their apartment on Thursday night, they only let me go before ten pm because I tell them I have to spend half my weekend locked in an abandoned insane asylum two hours away.
Not that it’s a lie, I think to myself as I pull into my driveway and turn off the engine.
Like always, my porch light is on, and I huff out a sigh as I lean back in my seat.
My head hasn’t stopped hurting all week, though the migraine has finally subsided into a dull, frustrating ache.
I’m still convinced it’s partially because of my sore, tight neck muscles, however, and my fingers come up to press against the knots that seem to build whenever my stress gets worse.
Well, there’s nothing to do about it now.
For the first time, my house seems lonely as I walk up to it.
The light being on just how I left it only serves to remind me that it’s quiet inside, without a soul waiting for me, save Mrs. Elmore across the street.
And even the light on inside that’s illuminating my porch through the glass panel beside my door—
I stop, my fingers inches from the handle on my front door, and my eyes narrow in confusion.
I never leave my living room light on. Sometimes I flip on the one over my kitchen sink, but I wouldn’t be able to see that through the glass.
My hand hovers in the air, my keys dangling from my fingers.
I know this can’t be right, but when I press down on the handle, my door is just as locked as it should be.
Had I actually gone and left it on? No matter how much I scan my brain, I can’t remember doing so when I left the house earlier today. But I’d been on the phone, apologizing to Brynn for leaving late, so I suppose…
Well, it’s not impossible. I was in a rush, and I'm unfortunately not infallible. If someone had broken in, surely my door wouldn’t still be locked, unless they came in through a window or the back door.
“Fuck it,” I whisper. This is getting me nowhere, but panic continues to fuel the anxiety in my chest. Fumbling with my keys, I manage to unlock my door and step inside.
Nothing jumps out at me. Not only that, but there’s no damage, nothing overturned, and nothing seems to have been stolen.
Everything is in its place, from what I can see.
Then a soft noise breaks the silence, and for a second, I’m sure it’s the creaking of the door as I close it behind me. But then it comes again, and I register it as sounding like a…cat?
I don’t have a cat unless the feline distribution system has seen fit to bless me with one. But I follow the noise until I’m standing in my kitchen and looking down at the floor where a pile of products that I certainly didn’t buy sits behind a plastic cat carrier.
A heavy envelope with my full name—Persephone Gallows—in blocky handwriting sits on the top. Confused and more than a little nervous, I sit down on my floor to grab the letter, though my eyes immediately go to the carrier when the sound comes again.
A cat stares back at me. In the darkness of the carrier, all I can see is a white nose and wide, green eyes set in a partially dark face. As much as I want to let the cat out, however, I still have way too many questions to do so.
As far as I know, this isn’t really how the feline distribution system normally works. From what I can see, the pile has all the supplies I could possibly need for a cat, and all of them are brand new, except for a cushioned bed that looks pretty well worn in.
“Okay, so, this is the weirdest thing to ever happen to me,” I murmur, and open the envelope to pull out the handwritten letter on notebook paper.
Persy-
Meet Arugula. He’s my cat, who I rescued last Halloween from the shelter.
He came from a not-great situation, but don’t worry, they won’t be owning pets ever again.
Anyway, I haven’t been able to give him the attention he needs.
My dad has needed my help with work a lot lately, meaning I’m not at home much.
Arugula hates other cats, so my parents’ house isn’t really an option, and he needs someone he can glue himself to.
That’s where you come in. I may not know you that well, but you seem like you could really use a friend. Especially one that loves to snuggle. He’d love for you to wrap around him instead of that red pillow you drool all over when you sleep.
Anyway, everything you need is here. He’s two years old, and doesn’t have any health problems. You can just set his food out and refill it when it’s empty. Don’t be too generous with the treats, last time the vet told me he’s fat and it’s not like he does much to work off the extra weight.
See you soon.
Your favorite Stalker
I need to read the letter twice to really let the words sink in, though my first response is to be offended at the accusation I drool on my pillow. I finally open the front of the carrier, and Arugula takes a few moments to assess his options before stepping out and giving a big stretch.
“You certainly are a cat of grand size, aren’t you?
” I murmur, one hand going out for the cat to sniff.
He touches his nose to my fingers, as if to assess my worthiness, before rubbing his mouth along my wrist. I can only assume he’s marking me as worthy, because a moment later, Arugula walks right into my lap and leans up to brace on my chest, his green eyes wide as he surveys my face.
I shouldn’t already be in love with my stalker’s cat.
He is gorgeous, though, no matter who he belongs to.
With long fur and a bottle-brush tail that he waves back and forth, he has a very noble look about him.
In a way, Arugula looks like he was dipped in white paint, I think with a grin.
Every bit of fur on his belly and legs is white, but his face is both white and black, like someone put a superhero mask on him and a cap over his ears.
A touch to his white nose proves it’s just as soft as it looks, and his long whiskers twitch at the movement.
Surprisingly, though I thought his back was black at first, as I pet him I realize it’s a dark, red-brown color that continues up his fluffy tail.
He’s adorable, and unique-looking, and clearly perfect in every way.
Really, already swooning for my stalker’s cat feels all kinds of wrong, and I’m sure Madison would give me every lecture in the book about this.
But how can I do anything but want to cuddle him forever when he lets out a low, rumbling purr and rubs his face along my jaw? I’ve just met Arugula, but I would definitely kill a man for him without question.
“You aren’t a reflection of your owner’s mental problems, are you?
” I coo, though really, I’m not one to be questioning anyone’s mental state.
“Aren’t you just so adorable?” God, there was never any chance of me putting Arugula back in his carrier and taking him outside to await my stalker’s return.
That would be cruel of me, first of all.
Carefully, I put him on the floor, prompting the cat to march off in what appears to be an investigation of his new digs.
While he does that, I set up the litter box by the patio door, then it takes a few tries to decide where I want to put his food and water.
Eventually, I decide to put them on the wall behind the couch.
There’s a perfect little nook beside the sideboard, and this way I can put the bag of cat food in the bottom of the piece of furniture that I got for cheap at a thrift store.
It takes a few minutes for me to assemble the cat fountain out of the box, but when I have it set up and the water is bubbling like it’s coming out of a sink and into a bowl, Arugula immediately trots himself over and sticks his face under the stream.
With his face sideways and one eye closed, tongue lapping at mostly air, it occurs to me he’s really not getting a lot of water. But as he seems to be enjoying himself, I decide not to question it.
The rest of his supplies go into the bottom of the server as well, except for the few treats I give him as a welcome gift. He deserves it, after all. But then, when I should go to my bathroom to shower and get ready for bed, I find myself…not.
I just stand there, watching him paw through his food, then play with one of the catnip toys I took from its packaging. By putting his bed in my room, I’m hoping he sleeps in there with me, but I know I should give him a little while to get used to me and my house before I expect anything.
“I don’t feel so lonely, all of a sudden,” I murmur to him, though the multi-colored cat obviously doesn’t respond.
When he finally gets bored with his toys and heads for the kitchen, I force myself not to follow and head into my room.
He doesn’t need me as his stalker, and I already checked to make sure there’s nothing out for him to get into, and that the doors are closed and locked.
My shower is quick, lasting maybe seven minutes, and before long I’m in bed with my hair still more than damp in my haste. While I’m not tired exactly, having a headache all week has worn me out. Arugula’s arrival made me forget about it, but in the shower, it unfortunately made itself known again.
Maybe tomorrow, I think to myself, it’ll have the decency to go the fuck away. I have stuff to do, and I don’t need to feel like shit for it.
Suddenly, I feel a weight at the bottom of the bed, and in the darkness I look up, barely able to see Arugula’s silhouette in the moonlight streaming in my window. He marches up the bed like he owns it, tail up behind him, and gives an almost lecturing meow with his eyes locked on me.
“Well, I am so sorry,” I laugh, a smile spreading over my face.
“If I knew your highness wanted to be in here, I would’ve given you an escort.
” As I watch, he walks over the pillows, kneading one for a few seconds, before finally stretching out across the one I’m not using, with his back legs kicked close to my face.
His paws flex, almost touching my nose, and when his tail flicks against the pillow, it brushes my nostrils in a way that I know will make me sneeze.
“Good night.” My fingers find his back, and I gently, hesitantly, stroke the long fur over his spine. He doesn’t move. Instead, a low purr builds in his throat, and he just stretches out a little more comfortably on the pillow.
With the sound of his purr in my ears and his soft fur under my fingers, I’m asleep before I can worry about what tomorrow will bring, or wonder if I’ll feel like doing my job and staying the night in one of the most famous haunted asylums in the country.