The Cat Door Incident

In the fall of 2018, I was seeing a man named Julian, a quiet architect who lived in a converted warehouse in the industrial district of Portland. He was a widower, his wife having passed under circumstances he never fully explained, only that it was sudden and tragic. I didn’t press; the grief in his eyes was enough. Julian shared his loft with a roommate, a reclusive musician named Elias, and three cats—Miso, Tofu, and Nori. Because of the roommate and the cats, he had a cat flap installed in the bottom of his bedroom door, a small vinyl square that swung both ways, allowing the felines free passage while maintaining some semblance of privacy. It was common to wake up in the middle of the night to the soft thud of the flap and a furry body curling up beside me.

One evening, we were watching a film in the main living area, but I was exhausted from a long week. I bid Julian goodnight and retreated to his room, closing the door behind me. I slipped under the duvet, curled on my left side in a fetal position, and quickly fell asleep. The room was dark, the only light a thin sliver from under the door, and the distant hum of the city outside.

At some point in the deepest part of the night, I was jolted awake by a sharp tug on my right shoulder, as if someone had grabbed me and pulled me backward. My eyes flew open. I expected to see Julian beside me, but the space to my right was empty, the sheets undisturbed. The room was silent, but I felt a presence—a cold draft emanating from the cat flap. I heard a soft, wet sound, like something being dragged across the floor. I froze, my heart pounding.

Slowly, I turned my head toward the door. The flap was moving, not with a cat’s lithe push but with a sluggish, hesitant motion, as if something too large was trying to squeeze through. A pale, slender hand, impossibly long fingers, reached through the opening, followed by a forearm that seemed to stretch beyond normal proportion. I watched in horror as a head emerged—a woman’s face, gaunt and hollow-eyed, her skin the color of old bone. She wore a tattered white dress, stained with dark patches. She pulled herself through the flap with a sickening crack of bones, unfolding until she stood at the foot of the bed, dripping something black and viscous onto the floor.

I couldn’t move, couldn’t scream. She stared at me with empty sockets, then slowly raised a finger to her lips in a shushing motion. She began to walk around the bed, her footsteps leaving wet prints on the hardwood. She stopped beside me, looming over my curled form. I could smell decay, like wet earth and rotting leaves. She leaned down, her wet hair brushing my cheek, and whispered in a voice like dry leaves scraping, ‘He didn’t bury me properly.’

She reached out a hand to touch my shoulder, and I felt a cold, numbing sensation spread through my body. The cats, which had been hiding under the bed, shot out and scrambled through the flap, but the woman paid them no mind. She turned her head slowly, almost mechanically, to look at the door. I followed her gaze and saw Julian standing there, his face ashen, his eyes wide with terror. He looked at me, then at the woman, and whispered, ‘I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.’

The woman smiled—a terrible, gaping smile—and said, ‘You should have stayed downstairs.’ Then she turned back to me, and her form began to dissolve into a black mist, seeping into my skin. I felt a cold invade my bones, and then everything went black.

When I woke, it was morning. The sun streamed through the industrial windows. The cats were sleeping peacefully on the bed, and Julian was nowhere to be seen. I tried to move, but my limbs felt heavy, like lead. I struggled to sit up, and as I did, I caught my reflection in the mirror across the room. I gasped. There, on my right shoulder, was a dark, hand-shaped bruise, the fingers clearly articulated. And in the corner of my eye, I saw a faint, dark shape standing behind me, but when I turned, nothing was there.

I tried to call out for Julian, but my voice came out as a raspy whisper. I staggered to the door, and as I reached for the handle, I saw the cat flap swing open, and a pair of hollow eyes stared back at me from the hallway. The woman’s face, now merged with my own reflection, smirked. I stumbled backward, tripping over a cat, and hit my head on the nightstand. The last thing I saw before blacking out was the woman’s form detaching from my body, floating toward the door, and disappearing into the hallway.

I don’t remember much after that. I woke up in a hospital, with Julian by my side. He told me I had fallen and hit my head, and that they found me unconscious on the floor. I tried to tell him about the woman, but he just looked at me with a mixture of fear and guilt. He said, ‘There’s something you need to know about my wife. She didn’t just die. I lied about how it happened.’ He paused, then continued, ‘I couldn’t accept the truth. She was murdered, and they never found the killer. But now… I think she’s still here.’

A chill ran down my spine. I looked at my reflection in the hospital window, and for a split second, I saw the woman’s face overlaid on mine, her mouth moving in silent words. Julian touched my hand, and I felt a cold draft, as if from an open door. He looked at me, his eyes filled with dread, and whispered, ‘She’s not gone. She’s attached to you now. Maybe it’s better if you stay away from me.’

I left the hospital that day, but the bruise on my shoulder never faded. And sometimes, in the mirror, when I catch my own reflection, I see her standing behind me, waiting. I don’t know if she wanted revenge or just a vessel, but I know one thing: I should never have slept in that room, and I should have paid attention to the cat flap that swung open for something that was not a cat.