The Painted Jar

I moved to the outskirts of a sleepy New England town last autumn, into a house that had been vacant for years. My neighbor, an elderly woman named Mrs. Hargrove, warned me about the ‘quiet ones’ and the ‘painted jars’ that appeared on doorsteps. I chalked it up to local superstition, until one night, around 3 AM, I decided to walk to the 24-hour gas station on the corner for a late-night craving: a jar of pickled okra.

The gas station was a relic, its fluorescent lights buzzing over a cramped aisle of canned goods. I grabbed my jar and headed to the counter, where a bored teenager rang me up. As I turned to leave, I noticed a small ceramic jar on the shelf by the door, painted with a swirling pattern of deep blues and blacks, like a storm frozen in time. It hadn’t been there a moment before. The cashier shrugged when I asked about it, saying, ‘Those things just appear. I never touch them.’ A chill ran down my spine, but I figured it was just some promotional display.

Out on the sidewalk, the streetlights cast long shadows. I was about to cross the empty road when I heard a soft, rhythmic scraping behind me, like something being dragged over concrete. I turned, and there, at the edge of the gas station’s light, sat a small, scruffy cat, not more than a few feet away. It was a calico, with a collar and a small, blue tag that jingled faintly. Its eyes glinted with an unnatural intelligence, and it stared at me without blinking. I knelt, extending a hand, but it darted away, pausing at the entrance of the gas station, as if urging me to follow.

Against my better judgment, I followed the cat back inside. The store was empty now, the cashier gone. The jar on the shelf was gone too. Instead, on the floor, right where the cat had stood, sat a different jar, this one painted with the image of a woman’s face, her mouth open in a silent scream. The cat nudged it with its nose, then looked at me, as if waiting. I felt a cold draft, and the lights flickered. Then, from the back of the store, I heard a low, guttural hum, like a swarm of bees trapped in a tin can.

The cat meowed, a sound that seemed to pierce the hum, and I found myself walking toward the back, past the shelves of expired snacks, to a door marked ‘Employees Only.’ The door was ajar, and I pushed it open to see a narrow hallway leading to a room that should not have been there—a dusty parlor, lit by a single candle, with a rocking chair that creaked as if someone had just left it. On a small table sat an array of painted jars, each one depicting a different face, some twisted in agony, others serene. The hum grew louder, and I realized it was coming from the jars. The cat rubbed against my leg, then nosed one of the jars, its paint flaking off to reveal a name scratched beneath: ‘Lena Morris.’

I felt a sudden, overwhelming urge to touch the jar, to open it, to release whatever was inside. My hand trembled as I reached out, but the cat let out a sharp yowl and bit my ankle. I stumbled back, and the room seemed to tilt. When I looked again, the parlor was gone, replaced by a storage closet filled with old mops and broken shelves. The cat was gone too. I ran out of the gas station, my heart pounding, the pickled okra still in my hand.

I didn’t sleep that night. The next morning, I went to the gas station to ask about the jars, but the cashier was a different person, a middle-aged woman who had no idea what I was talking about. She mentioned that the night clerk had quit, leaving a note that said, ‘The cat chooses.’ I tried to put it out of my mind, but a few days later, I found a small, painted jar on my own doorstep. It was the same size and shape as the one in the store, but the paint was different: it showed a house with a single window, and in the window, a cat was looking out. That night, I heard scratching at my door, and when I opened it, the calico cat was there, the blue tag on its collar now bearing the name ‘Lena Morris.’ I let it in, and it curled up on my lap, purring. I haven’t seen it since, but I still have the jar. I keep it on my mantel, and sometimes, when I look at it, I’m not sure if the cat is in the painting, or if I’m in the jar, waiting to be opened.

You tell me: was that paranormal, or just my imagination? Sometimes, I think I hear the hum coming from the jar at night, and I wonder if the cat knew exactly what it was doing when it chose me. I guess I’ll never know for sure, but I can’t shake the feeling that I’ve been marked, and that someday, I might find another jar waiting for me, with my own face painted on it.