The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

Life Eight Watches Life Nine
by Kathleen McCluskey

   I noticed it first in the reflection of the microwave door, that cheap, warped mirror that bends everything just enough to make you question your own eyes. It was well past midnight, the house reduced to a low electrical hum and my cat sat on the counter where she knew she didn’t belong. She was too still, her body in a kind of quiet attention that made the air feel heavier. Her eyes reflected the dim light, glowing faintly in the glass. At first nothing seemed to be wrong, until I realized there were too many of the glowing orbs looking back at me.

   I leaned closer, my breath fogging the glass, waiting for the image to correct itself. But it didn’t. Two faces pressed into one body stared back at me, fused seamlessly. I might have dismissed it if one hadn’t lagged behind the other. One set of eyes blinked. The second followed a moment later, slower, reluctant, like it was remembering how. A cold weight settled in my chest as I stared, trying to force sense into something that refused it.

   When I turned around, there was only one cat on the counter.

   She flicked her tail, annoyed and left out a chirp as if I interrupted her. No distortion. No second face. Just her, small and solid. More importantly, singular. I told myself it was the glass, the hour, my own exhaustion playing tricks. 

   A few nights later, she jumped onto my bed, circling twice before settling in against my legs. The room was dim, lit only by the dull glow of my phone. For a while I barely noticed her. Then her weight shifted, and something about it felt wrong. It wasn’t the natural adjustment of a cat getting comfortable. It was uneven, like two separate pressures trying to occupy the same space.

   One side pressed firmly into me, real and warm, while the other lagged behind. Slightly delayed, as though it had to catch up. When I looked down, the shape of her head seemed broader than it should have been, stretched in a way that didn’t align with reality. For one brief, sickening moment, I saw two muzzles sharing the same spine, overlapping like a double exposure. One set of whiskers trembled with breath and the other remained perfectly still.

   Then she yawned. Only one mouth opened. The shape collapsed instantly, snapping back to normal. Something safe. But my pulse didn’t follow. My heart raced in my chest. I lay there longer than I should have in the dark staring. Waiting for it to happen again.

   After that, I started watching her. Not casually. Not the way you watch a pet. But with a quiet growing fixation. Most of the time she was herself. Quiet. Indifferent. Lazy and draped across furniture like spilled ink. But there were moments where she would freeze, her eyes widening as she stared off into space. When she moved again, there was always a delay, subtle enough to miss if you weren’t looking for it.

   I tested it once.

   I clapped my hands sharply in the quiet. She flinched immediately, her body reacting in a quick, instinctive jerk. Then a fraction of a second later, she flinched again. The same moment repeated, weaker the second time, like an echo.

   The vet told me she was perfectly healthy. He ran his hands along her spine, checked her eyes, and listened to her chest. “Strong heartbeat,” he said, offering a small, practiced smile. But I watched his fingers linger a little too long over her ribs, a pause so slight it could have been nothing. But something in his expression tightened when he pulled away. I chose not to ask. Frankly, I was too scared to hear the answer.

   It got worse after that. I began to see the second image clearly when she moved too quickly followed by a blur of something almost identical. Then not. The difference was always the eyes.

   One set was alive, tracking every movement. The other was duller, fixed, watching without reacting. Sometimes they blinked out of sync. Sometimes only one set blinked. Once, in the dead stillness of the early morning, I watched one set of eyes closed in sleep and the other wide open, unblinking.

   That was when the understanding settled in. Cats don’t live nine lives one right after another, the way we like to say. They overlap. Near the end of one life and the beginning of another, there is a span where they both exist at once, sharing the same body. One fades while the other takes hold.

   Most people never notice because the transition is quick.

   This one wasn’t.

   Tonight, she sits at the foot of my bed, her body outlined by the dim light seeping in through the window.

   There is no echo anymore.

   The lives have finally caught up.

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Fiction © Copyright Kathleen McCluskey
Image courtesy of Pixabay.com 

More from Kathleen McCluskey:

The Long Fall: Book 1: The Inception of Horror

Lucifer always cunning and intelligent challenges father to a battle of wits. Being the angel of light he casts a judgemental eye upon mankind. He begins a war with his fellow archangels and God. Michael, along with his siblings defend their home and mankind from their deranged brother. Broad swords and hand to hand combat drench heaven in blood. The four apocalyptic steeds are released, each having their own destructive power. Betrayal and lust are at biblical levels. Understand the very creation of evil and the consequenses that transpire in the first of THE LONG FALL series.

Available on Amazon!