An accident leads to a traumatic haunting

   It isn’t my fault. Those words keep repeating over and over in my head with each wave of ice that pelts the car. My grip on the steering wheel is so tight my knuckles are as white as snow. I swerved, but it was too late.  

     In the rearview mirror I can see it. The unmistakable pointed ears of a cat. A flattened furry mass laying on the snowy road, the snow around it turning pink.       

     I don’t remember the drive home.  

     Days pass and every time I close my eyes all I see is the cat. My mind imagines its eyes, bright yellow, burning into my soul.  

     The weather hasn’t gotten any better. The snow blocks my front door and huge, sharp icicles bar each window. I haven’t been outside since it happened. I can’t sit comfortably, I’m constantly pacing, cleaning to keep myself busy.  

      Today while sweeping, a tuft of grey fur rolls to my foot. At first I thought it was dust, but as I continue to clean more and more have shown up. I pinch one between my fingers, raise it to the light. It’s fur, alright, not dust.  

     Right before my eyes the grey fur starts to grow red, sopping and red. I throw it into the trash and rush to wash my now stained hand. Only when the last drop of red goes down the drain can I try to relax and move on with my day.  

     At night, I shut the last light off and crawl into bed. Yet my heart beats faster and my eyes remain open. Outside my bedroom window the wind blows, the harsh whistle that comes with falling snow. Then the scratching starts. It’s probably just a branch or one of the icicles, I tell myself. But it never stops even as the wind dies down into the morning.  

     My hallway is littered with scratch marks when I check at dawn.  

     I’m sure I’ve gone crazy now; too much time trapped inside with no fresh air. But I can’t deny how real the marks are, how real the fur was. And the blood… 

     I try to shake the images from my brain. I need to eat, I need to keep myself busy. I open the fridge and take out some leftover soup. Once it’s done heating up in the microwave, I sit down to eat, trying to ignore the trash can at the other end of the kitchen. 

     The soup is nice, warm and creamy. I stick my spoon in for another bite. I don’t know what made me look down, maybe the spoon felt heavier, but I did. In my spoon is a yellow eye with a diamond shaped pupil staring up at me. When I meet its gaze, its pupil widens.  

     I scream and fling the spoon across the room, knocking over the bowl in the process. Blood soaks the table as I back away.  

     “I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” I cry, but the scratching starts again, like it’s inside my head, ringing in my ears, stinging pain behind my eyes.  

     As tears blur my vision, I hear the low, guttural sound of a cat’s growl behind me.  

This article was originally printed in Volume 24, issue 5 on January 9, 2025.