Everyone assumes it was curiosity. That's the story people tell because it lets them sleep. The truth is the thing would sit outside my office door every night, scratching at the wood exactly three times before falling silent. It followed me from room to room without making a sound, stared into empty corners, and hissed at spaces where there was nothing to hiss at. Every morning I found muddy paw prints leading into the house, never back out. It stopped feeling like a pet weeks before I convinced myself it was one.
Morphine Ghost
Curiosity didn't kill the cat—I did
You crossed the important threshold several paragraphs ago.
I buried it behind the shed, deep enough that I wouldn't have to think about it anymore. The scratching on my office door continued that night. Three slow raps. Then silence. I dug up the grave the next morning because I wanted proof that I hadn't imagined any of it. The hole was empty except for fresh paw prints leading away from where the body should have been. I don't think the cat was curious about me. I think it was keeping something else under observation, and I removed the only witness that knew what was coming.