“For the past few months, I’ve been feeling like someone’s been watching me. It started small—little things like lights I was absolutely sure I had turned off being on again, doors slightly ajar when I knew I had closed them tightly. At first, I told myself it was just stress or forgetfulness, but then the sounds began.

Late at night, when the house was completely still, I would hear faint noises coming from upstairs. Soft thumps. A shuffle. The subtle creak of floorboards. The problem was, I live alone. No roommates. No overnight guests. Just silence… and whatever was making those sounds.

I tried to brush it off, convincing myself it was the house settling or my imagination running wild. But last week, everything changed.

I came home and found muddy footprints leading from the back door straight into the kitchen. Real, clear prints. My stomach dropped. I stood frozen in the doorway, staring at them, trying to make sense of how someone could have been inside without me knowing.

Then, yesterday, it got even worse.

I returned from work to find my living room rearranged. The coffee table had been shifted several inches. The books on my shelf were no longer in the order I’d left them. A chill ran through me. My heart started pounding so hard I could hear it in my ears.

Terrified, I locked myself in my bedroom and called the police.

They arrived quickly and searched the house from top to bottom. Every room. Every closet. Every window and door. Nothing. No signs of forced entry. No hiding place. No intruder.

As they were about to leave, one officer paused. He hesitated, then gave me a strange, knowing look.

“Ma’am,” he said gently, “there’s no sign of anyone breaking in, but… I think I know what’s going on.”

My heart raced as he leaned in and asked quietly,
“Have you… checked on your cat?”

And suddenly, it all clicked.

My cat. The gremlin. The tiny, fluffy embodiment of chaos. The creature who knocks books off shelves for fun, drags muddy shoes across the floor like trophies, rearranges furniture by launching herself at it, and attacks light switches as if they personally offended her.

The mysterious noises. The moved objects. The muddy footprints. The lights turning on and off.

Mystery solved.

I’m not being haunted. I’m not being stalked.
I’m just living with a furry agent of destruction who believes the entire house is her playground.