The Cat Who Chased Ghosts

The Thompsons glanced at each other in astonishment, their mouths hanging open, unable to utter a single word. The sight of the crumbling house, with its cracked walls and partially caved-in roof, made Timmy, a small twelve-year-old boy with curly, coppery hair and a sea of freckles, gasp aloud.

Robert and Catherine Thompson—an accountant and a marketing manager, respectively—grew more and more alarmed as they were guided from room to room by the lawyer, R. C. Banes, in charge of showing them the property they had just inherited from Robert’s Great-Aunt Wilhelmina.

Despite Banes’s enthusiastic praise for the property’s “quaint charm” and “historical significance,” the couple took in with dismay the faded yellow wallpaper, stained with humidity, and recoiled at the offensive odor emanating from the antiquated, worm-eaten furniture that seemed to have collected years’ worth of dust. The rusty hinges on the doors and cabinets squealed in protest, echoing through the empty rooms, adding to the unsettling creaks of the floorboards, which made them flinch with every step.

“Hey, look!” Timmy cried out, pausing abruptly in front of a doorway. He sprinted into the living room and kneeled beside a hideous, mud-colored couch that had seen better days.

On the couch, a sizable orange tabby cat peacefully slept, soaking in the warmth of the only sunbeam that streamed through the room. Two white round marks around his eyes, resembling spectacles, gave him a curious appearance. In his sleep, he made a funny rasping noise.

The lawyer coughed. “I almost forgot! Your inheritance includes Whiskers.”

Timmy’s face lit up. He reached out to stroke Whiskers’ dull, matted fur, which was spotted here and there with a few gray hairs. The cat stopped snoring long enough to open one of his eyes, a deep shade of amber. He met Timmy’s gaze, blinked, and let out a big yawn.

“Mom, Dad, can we keep him?”

The Thompsons exchanged doubtful glances, and Robert sighed.

“He looks pretty beat up. How old is he?”

“Nobody knows,” replied the lawyer casually. “He was hanging about the neighborhood for years before your relatives adopted him.”

Whiskers shifted his position slightly, stretched his paws, and resumed his nap, unfazed by all the attention.

“Be careful, Timmy. He might scratch you,” warned a concerned Catherine.

“He has glasses, just like me,” said Timmy, feeling an instant connection with the plump feline.

“He’d make a perfect library cat.” The lawyer chuckled.

“Glasses do not equal nerd!” the boy replied touchily; with a gentle grip on his shoulder, his mother tried to coax him away from the couch.

“Come, darling. It’s too drafty in here,” she said.

Timmy rose reluctantly. “I bet there’s more to you than meets the eye,” he whispered in the tabby’s ear, but Whiskers showed no sign of hearing.

In spite of the house’s dismal condition, Robert was determined to stay overnight in order to prepare for the arrival of the first moving truck, and Catherine couldn’t bear the thought of him being there without any company. Moreover, they had already vacated their apartment and were too dispirited by the thought of home improvements to contemplate spending money on a hotel.

That same evening, while brushing his teeth, Timmy listened to the hushed voices of his parents carrying softly down the hallway.

“Nice present Aunt Willie gave us,” Catherine grumbled. “Did you see that banister? I was too scared to lean on it.”

“The lawyer’s description on the phone was clearly misleading.” Robert sighed. “We can’t even sell it in its current condition.”

“I know I said we needed a fresh start after Mom died, and not having a mortgage is great, but moving to Pendleford is not what I had in mind,” she continued.

“I would have liked it too, if we could have bought where we were renting,” Robert agreed, “but it was way over our budget. Still, it’s nice to have everything within walking distance,” he concluded optimistically.

“And that cat. He’s so old and scruffy,” his wife persisted. “What if we wake up one of these days and find him dead? That would be so traumatic for Timmy.”

“We should put him in a hospice or something. Is there such a thing? A retirement home for elderly ca—Agh!” She let out a tiny shriek.

“What?”

“Oh, Bob! I think I saw a mouse.”

A heavy sigh escaped Robert’s lips, the third one of the day.

“Please don’t give Whiskers away!” Timmy begged his mother when she popped into his room to say goodnight.

Catherine stroked his curly hair. “Honey, an old cat is not ideal for a chil—a boy your age,” she corrected herself, noticing Timmy’s expression. “Besides, who knows how long we will stay? This house doesn’t suit us.”

“He could hunt the mice,” Timmy suggested, hopefully.

Catherine’s eyes darted toward Whiskers, who was curled up in a corner of the room, still making that light rasping noise.

“My dear, I don’t think he would survive the undertaking.”

“Tomorrow, can I ride my bike to school?” Timmy asked, tactically changing the subject, but still determined to keep Whiskers.

“Um . . . We’ll see. Don’t look at me like that! You fell off last month.”

“It was last year, and I didn’t fall. I was pushed.” Timmy huffed.

Once she departed, the boy was left to his ruminations in a house that had fallen eerily quiet; the only noises were the steady ticking of the grandfather clock in the hallway and the cat’s gentle purring. Accustomed to the hustle and bustle of the city, he found it difficult to drift off to sleep.

He stared at his bedroom walls, adorned with pale pink wallpaper that was peeling at the edges, revealing patches of bare wall. A chilly breeze blew in through a gap under the warped window, causing the curtains to sway gently.

“Everybody thinks we are useless, Whiskers,” he declared after a moment’s thought. “But they’re wrong.”

He proceeded to turn off the light.

In the corner, Whiskers’ purring intensified.