Lovecraft was never really my cat in the first place, not really. So individual and unusual a creature was he, in fact, that it was hard to imagine him ever having belonged to anyone.
He padded through my door one day a week or so after I first moved into Shorecliff House and seemed to take a liking to the place straight away. He sniffed at the carpets, peered under the furniture, crawled in and out of corners and small spaces I hardly even knew were there and, virtually ignoring me for the entire time, generally took his measure of the whole house. When all of his investigations were complete he found himself a comfortable spot on the window ledge in the drawing room and sat there in the sun all afternoon while I worked at emptying boxes and cleaning floors and getting the place as close to habitable as was possible. I didn’t pay him much attention and he paid me even less. Later that day I wandered through the room again looking for something item or other I’d mislaid and noticed that he’d left his perch and disappeared from the house entirely. I never knew where he went to or where he came from in the first place.
He made his own rules right from the start.
He was never really my cat at all.
(This is a short extract taken from a longer story. To read the full version for free, please visit us here. Thanks for reading.)
‘The Shorecliff Horror’ is Chapbook number three of four volumes forthcoming from the Olgada Press during 2015.