The Stained Glass Cat

I was eleven when my grandmother, Nana Rose, decided we needed a weekend getaway to the old Meridian House, a sprawling Victorian inn perched on a cliff overlooking the churning Atlantic. The drive from our inland town took us through winding coastal roads, the sky growing gray and bruised as we approached. Nana Rose, a woman who collected antique thimbles and believed in the therapeutic power of strong tea, had chosen this place for its ‘character’. I, having just finished a phase of reading ghost stories under my covers with a flashlight, was both thrilled and terrified.

Our room, Number 9, was at the end of a dimly lit hallway that smelled of dust and old lavender. The wallpaper was a faded damask pattern, and the furniture was heavy, dark oak. The centerpiece was a massive, ornate mirror that spanned the entire wall opposite the bed, its silver backing clouded with age. Nana Rose, ever practical, unpacked our bags while I stood in the doorway, a knot tightening in my stomach. I had read about this room online, in a forum of ghost enthusiasts who claimed to have seen a spectral woman in a white gown and heard the faint jingle of a cat’s bell.

After we got settled, Nana Rose decided we needed a new camera, as her old one was on the fritz. We walked down the hill to a small pharmacy that smelled of mothballs and hard candy. I bought a disposable camera with a purple casing, the kind you had to wind after every shot. Back at the inn, I was alone for a moment while Nana Rose went to the lobby to ask about the Wi-Fi. I sat on the edge of the bed, and that’s when I saw it: the armchair by the window had a deep, distinct indentation in the cushion, as if someone had just stood up. But we had been gone for over an hour, and the chair had been perfectly smooth when we left. My heart hammered. I fumbled with the camera, wound it, and snapped a picture of the empty chair. The flash illuminated the room for a split second, and I could swear I saw a faint, transparent shape for a fraction of a second.

That night, the storm hit. The wind howled around the old building, rattling the windows, and rain lashed against the glass. I lay in bed, unable to sleep, staring at my reflection in the giant mirror. Nana Rose was already asleep, her breathing steady and calm. I closed my eyes, but then I felt it: a warm, vibrating pressure against my ear, like a cat purring. I froze. I didn’t own a cat. I opened my eyes and turned my head, but there was nothing there. The purring continued, loud and clear, right by my ear, so real that I could feel the vibration. Tears welled up in my eyes. I was too scared to move, too scared to call out.

I buried my head under the pillow, as if that could block out the sound, but it only grew louder. It was as if some invisible creature was curling up beside me, its phantom heart beating against my temple. I sobbed quietly, hoping Nana Rose would wake up, but she was deep in a dreamless sleep. I don’t know how long I lay there, frozen in terror, but eventually the purring stopped, and I felt a coolness, like a shadow passing over me. I peeked out from under the pillow, and in the mirror, I saw something that made my blood run cold: a faint, luminous shape of a cat, its form shimmering like heat waves, sitting on the foot of the bed, its empty eyes fixed on me. I screamed.

Nana Rose sat up instantly, her hand reaching for the lamp. The shape vanished, but the terror remained. She held me, her voice soothing, telling me it was just the storm, my imagination, a bad dream. But I knew what I had seen. She turned on all the lights and made us tea, but I couldn’t stop shaking. The next morning, the storm had passed, and the sun streamed through the windows, making the room seem ordinary. But I still felt the phantom touch of the cat, and I knew that something had been there with us.

I never got the film developed. I lost the camera somewhere between the inn and our home, but even if I had, I don’t think I could have brought myself to look at the pictures. I knew what I would see: the imprint on the chair, the faint shape in the mirror, and perhaps the ghostly cat that had claimed me for a night. I still think about that room, that mirror, and that cat. I don’t know if it was a spirit or a manifestation of my own fear, but I know one thing: I have never slept with my back to a mirror since. And I still hear it sometimes, at the edge of sleep, a soft, phantom purring, just by my ear.