The Cat Summoned a Demon

1. Chapter 1

Evie

Two things I know for certain:

One. The couple in the Honeysuckle Room last night were either celebrating an anniversary, or hosting a ritual sacrifice to Bacchus. Two. Merlot doesn’t come out of antique Persian carpet without a fight.

Twenty minutes pass, and four cleaning products fail as I kneel, locked in a staring contest with the wine stain that’s probably judging me as hard as I’m judging it.

My scrub brush snaps in half, because obviously, the universe is running a two-for-one special on humiliation today.

“Perfect,” I announce, waving the broken handle like a white flag. Add it to my growing list of things that need fixing. Right after two burnt-out bulbs, the porch step that’s actively plotting my murder, and apparently my entire sanity.

When Mrs. Henderson sold me the Foxglove Inn, she said it liked to ‘test people.’ She made it sound hauntingly poetic. Turns out, she was warning me that the plumbing had a vendetta.

I grab a towel and attack the carpet one last time. The stain fades to a shadow—good enough. If anyone asks, moving the decorative trunk two inches to the left is my “strategic design choice.”

When I rise, my knees crack so loudly I wince. Twenty-seven is far too young to sound like a bowl of Rice Krispies.

A pale blue package perches on the nightstand, ribboned and aggressively cheerful, with a note tucked underneath.

So sorry about the mess! Please give this to Marmalade. He made our stay unforgettable.

Even my cat is more beloved than I am. Marmalade: local celebrity, guest magnet, and minor deity to anyone who’s ever managed to pet him. He doesn’t work here. He just exists. And apparently, that’s enough.

I unwrap the box and find a cat Ouija board. Black fabric with gold lettering, YES and NO in the corners, and a ball planchette sporting painted paw prints.

Somewhere, someone got paid to invent this. I hope they’re thriving.

I lob the board onto the bed and grab my supplies. My checklist waits downstairs, half-unchecked and judgy. Laundry, linens for the Garden Room, groceries before breakfast prep tomorrow.

The carved wooden staircase creaks under my feet in the pattern I know by heart: thirteen steps down, then left past the grandfather clock that never works properly no matter what I try.

The kitchen is how I left it, which is the only predictable thing about this morning.

Sunlight streams through the window over the sink, illuminating the herb garden outside: rosemary, thyme, and basil in terra cotta pots.

I use them for breakfast service, but for the most part, I enjoy watching plants grow. It’s satisfying, keeping things alive.

I’m elbow-deep in dish soap when the back door opens without knocking, which means it’s either Daisy or someone with a death wish.

“You’re cleaning again,” my sister announces, as if this constitutes breaking news.

She breezes in wearing a lavender cardigan over a white sundress that floats around her knees despite the mid-September chill creeping through the inn’s old windows all week.

Daisy has always been this way, impervious to practical concerns such as weather or stained clothing.

Her honey-blond hair falls in those perfect waves I’ve never managed to replicate, despite owning the same genetics.

“Hi to you, too.” I scrub at a stubborn coffee ring inside a mug.

She hops onto the counter and goes for the cookie jar. “So . . . Rebecca Hartley has a boyfriend.”

“Riveting.” I chase a fleck of soap around the rim.

“She met him when her sink broke, and he came to fix it. Love at first pipe wrench.”

“That’s not how plumbing works,” I mutter.

“That’s not how romance works, either, but try telling that to Rebecca. Three-hour conversation. Sparks flying right past the leaking pipes. They’re going to the fall festival together.”

I scrub at the mug so hard it squeaks in protest. “Good for them.”

“When’s the last time you talked to someone for three hours who wasn’t a guest dissecting water pressure or hunting for the Wi-Fi password?”

I want to say, I’m fine. I want to say, what does it matter? What I want most is to say, I don’t remember. And I’m not sure if that means I’m content or if I’ve gotten good at folding loneliness into laundry and checklists until it disappears inside the seams.

“I like my life.”

“You like your lists,” she counters.

“Same thing.”

“It’s really not.” Daisy kicks her heels against the cabinet in a rhythm that would drive me insane if I hadn’t spent years learning to tune it out. “You need help around here, Evie.”

“I have help. It’s called compartmentalization and denial.”

“I meant actual help.” Daisy sighs. “The kind that doesn’t come in a spray bottle or a color-coded spreadsheet.”

“With what money?” I turn off the faucet. “Between the mortgage and keeping Foxglove running, I’m barely breaking even most months. Adding payroll isn’t happening.”

“Then let me help. I could come by a few mornings, handle breakfast service while you do other things.”

“You have a job.”

“A flexible one at the Visitor Center where I basically tell tourists where to eat lunch.” She grabs my hand. “I want to help you, Evie.”

The words land harder than they should because she means them. She always does. But accepting help is the same as proving everyone right when they said buying this place was too much for one person.

I don’t answer right away. Daisy takes my silence as an opening, which is never a good sign. “You know, when you bought the inn three years ago—”

“Don’t.”

“I thought you’d eventually let yourself enjoy it, instead of just surviving it.”

“I have to do it myself. The loan is in my name, and so is the commitment. This is my responsibility.”

“You say that as if I wasn’t there.” Daisy hops down and stands beside me. “We stripped paint until your hands bled. I replanted the garden with you after that first winter killed everything. I know how hard you worked. That’s why I’m worried.”

I bristle. “I’m fine.”

“Liar.”

“What do you want me to say?”

“That you’ll let me help. Or that you’re coming to Mom’s dinner on Monday, so she stops asking me if you’re okay.”

“Can’t. I have guests checking in Tuesday morning.”

“You always have guests checking in.”

“That’s how businesses work.”

“Monday is three days away. You could prep on Sunday.”

“I also need to fix the loose porch step before someone sues me into oblivion. And organize the pantry. And deep-clean the Clover Room. And order new linens, because the ones in the Honeysuckle Room are starting to look threadbare.”

“You’re making excuses.”

“I’m listing legitimate responsibilities.”

“There’s always a task that needs doing, and you never have time.” Daisy’s expression turns serious. “You’re not busy, Evie. You’re hiding.”

The word stings more than I expect. I grab the dish towel and focus on drying my hands with more attention than the task requires.

“I’m not hiding.”

“Then prove it. Come to one dinner.”

I fold the towel into a precise square. “Fine. The next one, not Monday. But if something comes up—”

“You’ll text me before you cancel, not send a message an hour beforehand.”

“Deal.”

She kisses my cheek on her way to the door, then pauses. “Where’s Marmalade? I wanted to say hi.”

“Probably murdering something in the garden.”

“He’s a treasure.”

“He’s a tyrant who thinks I exist to serve him.”

“All cats think that. He’s just more honest about it.”

The door clicks shut behind her, and the kitchen feels empty without her.

I finish the dishes and wipe down the counters, pointedly not thinking about the next family dinner I agreed to, then check my list. The rest of the day becomes a training montage, except I get progressively more exhausted instead of stronger.

Garden Room: strip bed, remake with fresh lavender sheets, fold corners with hospital-tight precision that would make a drill sergeant weep with pride. Fluff pillows. Adjust throw blanket five times because the drape has to be perfect even though guests will destroy it in thirty seconds.

Laundry: four loads, because apparently, guests use seventeen towels per person.

Hallway: get intercepted by Mrs. Wilson, who has fifteen questions about lunch options.

By late afternoon, I’m operating on muscle memory and spite. Everything hurts. My hands smell of chemicals. My ponytail has given up and died, leaving sad honey-brown wisps stuck to my face.

This is fine.

This is what I signed up for.

This is the dream.

The dream is exhausting.

Outside, the fall air wakes me up. Rosemary and thyme brush my legs as I follow the stone path toward the cottage, and the mint has escaped its bed again, taking over the edge of the fence like it pays rent.

My cottage sits at the edge of the property where the garden meets the forest, tucked behind the inn in what used to be the gardener’s quarters, back when the Foxglove was first built in the late 1800s.

The Hendersons used it for storage and occasional seasonal staff, but I renovated it into my own place.

The roof sags at the eaves, where clematis vines tangle in last year’s twinkle lights, and the painted door glows pink even on cloudy afternoons.

A patchwork of mismatched flowerpots lines the steps, all thrift store finds overplanted with succulents, marigolds, and anything else that will survive my haphazard watering.

The cottage’s cooler air hits my skin as I step inside. Marmalade sits in the middle of the living room floor, tail wrapped around his paws, watching me with unnerving focus.

“What did you do?”

He blinks but doesn’t move.

I scan the room for evidence of crimes: knocked-over plants, shredded curtains, mysterious wet spots.

Everything looks intact. The colorful rug is still centered under the pink sofa.

On the shelf, the trailing pothos hasn’t been murdered.

Even the gallery wall of botanical prints remains unmolested.

“You’re being weird,” I tell him.

He walks straight to my feet and winds between my ankles, yowling until I’m certain the neighbors two houses over can hear him auditioning for a feline opera.

“I already fed you.”

He looks up at me, then at the Ouija board tucked under my arm, then back at me.

“You don’t actually want this.”

He launches himself at my shin with claws fully extended.

“Ow! Fine! You win! Take the cursed thing!” I shake him loose and drop the board onto the floor.

Marmalade approaches it with his belly low to the ground, ears forward and whiskers pushed out. Every line of his body says predator, even though he’s investigating a piece of painted wood.

He sniffs the planchette, then bats it once. It spins across the letters and lands on YES. Marmalade freezes.

“Okay, this is officially creepy.”

Near the kitchen doorway, the calendar reads FRIDAY THE 13TH in bold print. I tap the wooden doorframe twice because Mom raised me to believe in small protections, even if I don’t believe in much else.

Behind me, Marmalade’s purring takes on a deeper tone that vibrates through the floorboards.

I head toward the bathroom, declaring this day over. I’m taking a bath, drinking the rest of that bottle of wine I opened last week, and pretending today never happened.