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But it can't be. It's such a cliche. My exwife coming back to life as a cat to torment me. Heard it a thousand times before. Besides, the cat was born months before she died. It doesn't have her mannerisms, it doesn't have that patch of fur in the shape of her birthmark that the protagonist of the story always sees just as he dies, and it's not her. Not to mention the fact that in these tales, in order to make you feel deep inside that the guy deserved it, he kills his wife and buries her in the basement or something. Terry died of pneumonia. I didn't even leave the door open while she slept. I was a loving and dutiful husband while she was alive. I just... don't miss her as much as I should.

This is silly. It's a cat, for god's sake. Sure, Terry had her faults, but she was no cat lover. If she'd come back as a cat, she'd be yowling all day and all night about how unfairly she'd been treated, and how she wanted to know who's in charge of the department so she could complain. Only reason we ever had the little monster around is that Krystal loved it. Still does. It treats her... a trifle less harshly than it deals with me, which I suppose is cat love. I'll put up with it, for her sake. I'll put up with a lot, for my daughter's sake.

So that's it. It's a cat. No more, no less. Right.

Doesn't explain the marks it leaves, though. No cat should leave scratches this thick. Like fingernail clawings, I'd say, if I was going back to the whole haunted-by-Terry thing, which I'm not. Terry liked leaving visible marks. A possessive thing, I think. Plus, it allowed her to make all her friends think she was a demon in bed. It's a status game.

A demon. There's a thought. Maybe it's a demon. It could happen. It's more plausible than Terry deciding for some reason that she wanted revenge for some imagined slight and coming back as a cat. And one night I'll wake up and find Krystal chanting and holding a... stop that right now. Keep Krystal out of this. You may have your differences at the moment, but she's still far and away the best thing that's come out of your life.

Cat. Yes. A cat.

Or maybe it's Bast. Bast was a cat goddess, right? A cat goddess would have all the cat traits in good measure, which it does, and supernatural powers to boot, which it'd have to have. It likes playing with me, in that whole cat-playing-with-mouse sort of way. That's a goddess trait right there.

It is kind of cute sometimes. When it's asleep. I'd pet it, but that's how I got my last set of war wounds.

Do we have any other classic horror tale suspects? Aliens. Monsters. Things under the bed. (It's certainly that, from time to time.) Pod people. Well, pod cats, anyhow.

No, I think you're right. It's a cat, and nothing more.

I'm projecting. It's a classic case. I'm feeling repressed guilt, somehow, over Terry, and I'm projecting it on to the cat. My therapist would probably be able to help me work it out if I still went to see him. He was always good at that. Funny guy, too, which you don't expect in a therapist. Projection. That's all.

Of course, in the horror stories, it's only once you decide that you're crazy that the whatever-it-is strikes. Which it won't. Because this isn't a horror story.

I wish she'd wake up. Krystal, I mean. We have to talk about this. If we don't, it'll just fester, and I had enough of that with Terry. I loved her too, once, I think. I remember being insane when she was near, anyhow, which I suppose is a fair definition of love. I wonder when it faded?

The cat is awake, though. Staring at me. No expression in its eyes. Not that I can read cat expression anyhow. I understand it's something about the tail and the ears. It could be telling me that it escaped from the gnome people at the center of the earth, and I still wouldn't have the slightest clue. Krystal would know.