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It takes me a good thirty seconds to get my bearings and remember where I am, and that the cat isn’t Smokey, but Prince Francis.
I throw the covers off and pad across the floor, a shiver runs down my spine when I hit a creaky spot. I flick on the hall light and wait for my eyes to adjust.
I spot Prince Francis, sitting in front of the closed door leading to one of the rooms.
“What’s going on, buddy?” He doesn’t look my way, just keeps up with the loud, melancholy yowls. He stretches out, his nails sliding down the wood, making a muted nails-on-chalkboard sound. I call his name a couple more times, but he continues to ignore me.
I pad down the hall, considering my options. I don’t want to go snooping around, but there must be a reason Prince Francis is in full-on caterwauling mode. Maybe there’s a mouse in there, or another rodent.
Before I open the door, I scoop Prince Francis up and tuck him under one arm so he can’t go running in there before I’ve had a chance to make sure it’s safe. He’s like a squirmy baby, but I’m not taking chances, since Miles’s mom is a semi-hoarder, and over the years I’ve learned that some people have rooms full of boxes that they keep hidden from the rest of the world.
I turn the knob and the door creaks open slowly, exactly as it would if we were in a horror movie. I flick on the light and am relieved when there’s no masked man wielding a knife. It’s not a hoarder lair; it’s another bedroom. I set a wriggling Prince Francis on the floor, and he zooms across the room, jumps up on the bed, launches himself onto the dresser and then back onto the floor, yowling while I take in the space.
It’s a child’s bedroom. Not an infant, but a young boy maybe. There’s a twin bed in one corner decorated with a dark comforter with a Spider-Man theme. The whole room looks like an homage to superheroes. Miles said he was an only child, so I have no idea what to make of this room.
Prince Francis stops zooming and plunks his butt in front of the wall. And he starts back up with the melancholy meowing, but this time it’s directed at nothing. And when I try to pick him up, he hisses and follows with an admonishing swat.
Enticing him with treats doesn’t work. At a loss, I leave him where he is, certain he’ll stop eventually. Half an hour later Prince Francis is still yelling at the wall, and I’m convinced the house is haunted.
chapter eleven
THE PIECES OF WHO WE ARE
Miles
I check my phone for messages on my way to the bathroom. In the past, I’d wait until my coffee was brewing before I touched my phone, but now that Prince Francis and Kitty are part of my life, I look forward to the regular updates.
Kitty often sends gifs and pictures of her and Prince Francis. This morning’s picture was taken in my childhood bed, Kitty smiling sleepily at the camera and Prince Francis curled around the top of her head. Underneath is the caption: like my new hat?
But under that caption are several other messages, sent about an hour ago.
Kitty: Question: is your mother’s house haunted?
Kitty: Another Question: is there a child living here that I don’t know about?
Kitty: Question three: is it possible that there are things hiding in this closet?
Under the last question is a picture of the closet in my younger brother Toby’s room.
Kitty: Such as small critters and/or possibly a portal to another dimension through which the undead can make their way into our realm?
I drag a hand down my face. I probably should have filled Kitty in on the whole story when it comes to my family, but talking about my younger brother isn’t particularly pleasant. Also, I don’t think my mother’s house is haunted, but I haven’t lived there in a lot of years, so I suppose anything is possible. I’ve never really put much stock into the idea of the undead coming back to creep people out. But I don’t discount the possibility of alien life forms, so I suppose I can’t exactly discount undead ones, either.
I decide I need a shower and a few minutes of mental preparation before I tackle the questions from Kitty.
Fifteen minutes later I’m standing in my kitchen as I hit Call on her contact. She answers on the second ring.
“Hey, hold on, I’m dealing with some bad behavior.” The phone thumps on what must be a hard surface. “One more time, Chumble Buns, and you’re getting the spray bottle. I’m serious. No more climbing the curtains. Your mom would be very, very disappointed in you if she could see you now.”
