On Labor Day, I got home late. I was too preoccupied with getting all my stuff inside to notice that someone was waiting for me underneath the stairs. It wasn't until I had shut my door and locked it that I noticed someone had followed me inside.
It was a cat. A black cat. Staring at me.
Now, I don't scream very often—I save it for roller coasters. Any time I'm startled, I usually let out a shriek or an low-toned, operatic "augh." You know I'm truly scared when I let out a shrill, girlie scream.
When I saw that cat, I screamed.
The cat jumped, but interpreted my loud greeting as a "make yourself at home," and headed straight to my bedroom.
Once again, it stared at me as I approached—with a broom, of course—only this time, all I could see were its glowing yellow eyes. I turned a few more lights on, and then started coaxing the cat to walk in the direction my broom was pointed. I was scared to touch it because that much contact would destroy my night with unbearable itching and sneezing.
The cat followed my lead, though, and it was soon back outside where it belonged. I locked the door again, relieved that that problem turned out to be easy to fix. I soon forgot about the cat, and settled into my nightly routine.
The next morning when I left for work, the cat was waiting for me on the stairs. It jumped up the moment I opened the door, again thinking it was an invitation to come in. The daylight helped me keep my wits about me this time, so there was no screaming. And I managed to get the door closed before the cat snuck in.
Having a cat as a stalker isn't the worst thing that's ever happened to me, but it's still a bit unsettling, daylight or not. I'm too young to be a crazy cat lady, dang it.