Evelyn had never believed in omens or signs. She was practical to a fault, the kind of person who scoffed at ghost stories and saw black cats as nothing more than stray animals. That changed the night one appeared at her doorstep.
It was cold, one of those October evenings where the wind howled through the trees, tugging at the last brittle leaves. She was sitting in her rocking chair, lost in the rhythm of its creaks, when a soft thump came at the door. Then the scratching—a slow, deliberate sound.
When she opened it, the cat was there. Black as night, sleek as oil, with eyes like burning embers, with three stripes on its tail. It didn’t meow or beg to come in. It simply stared, unblinking.
Evelyn should’ve closed the door, but something about its gaze rooted her to the spot. Without thinking, she stepped aside, and the cat padded in as though it had been waiting all along.
From that night, the cat became a fixture in her home. It wasn’t affectionate, didn’t curl in her lap or paw at her for food. Instead, it kept its distance, watching her from the shadows. She should’ve found it unnerving, but instead, she felt… comforted. Protected, even.
At first, it was little things. She’d forget where she’d left her keys or why she’d walked into a room. Then bigger things: birthdays, names, places she’d been.
The mirrors were the worst.
One day, she glanced into the bathroom mirror and swore her reflection wasn’t quite right. The face staring back felt unfamiliar, blurred at the edges.
She stopped looking after that. Avoiding mirrors became second nature, like forgetting had become second nature. She told herself it was nothing—stress, age, the weather. But the cat’s eyes followed her wherever she went, and she couldn’t shake the feeling that it was keeping track of something she wasn’t.
One night, she woke to find the cat sitting at the foot of her bed, its eyes glowing faintly in the moonlight. There was something different about it.
As the days passed, her memories felt like grains of sand slipping through her fingers. The cat grew bolder, closer to her. Does she perhaps has a sickness that only the cat can detect?
Then, one morning, Evelyn woke up and knew something had changed. Her senses were sharper—too sharp. The light filtering through the curtains was almost blinding, the creak of her bed too loud. She stretched instinctively, but her body moved in a way that wasn’t hers.
She padded to the mirror, hesitating before looking. When she did, she saw it: the sleek, black cat staring back.
Her.
Her breath caught—not that she could call it breath anymore. She raised a paw, watching as the reflection mirrored her. The three distinct stripes on her tail gleamed faintly in the light. It hit her then, like a thunderclap. She hadn’t been losing herself.
She had been becoming.
Evelyn—if she could even call herself that anymore—flicked her tail and hopped from the bed. Her mind, once human, felt distant now, a fading memory swallowed by instincts far older. She didn’t feel sorrow or panic. Only a calm certainty.
She moved to the door, her movements silent and fluid, and slipped out into the cool morning air. The world smelled different—sharper, richer. She didn’t think of the life she’d left behind. It no longer mattered.
As she padded down the empty street, Evelyn caught sight of someone standing beneath a streetlight. A young woman, staring upward, her eyes wide as if following something no one else could see.
Evelyn’s three-striped tail flicked lazily behind her. The woman noticed the cat and gasped softly, whispering something about how beautiful it was.
But Evelyn didn’t care. The woman wasn’t hers to choose. Evelyn had already made her choice. Her gaze flicked to a darkened house just ahead, where a single light burned in an upstairs window.
She slipped into the shadows, her movements seamless, her purpose clear. The cycle would continue, just as it always had. Evelyn—no, the cat—she was waiting out.
For the next becoming in the cycle.
A cycle that would go on without anyone knowing…
…unless they were chosen.
