Funk-N-Fiction

We’re finishing our day third day of the 2026 Halloween Flash Fiction event with a Lizzy Borden inspired short story (and a contest!) from Kerry Evelyn!

The Cat’s Out of the Box: Max’s Story
by Kerry Evelyn

Humans amused me.

I had reached this conclusion long before Will and Emma arrived at the Lizzie Borden Bed & Breakfast, but they provided additional evidence almost immediately.

Will claimed he didn’t believe in ghosts. He said this while following his girlfriend around a battleship, then a historic park, then a house where two people had been murdered with a hatchet, having decided that love required him to endure any number of foolish activities.

Emma, meanwhile, believed in practically everything that couldn’t be seen, heard, or otherwise verified without special equipment. She had the bright eyes and twitchy excitement of a kitten who’d discovered a loose thread on the curtains.

I liked her.

Will, in spite of his love blinders, was also acceptable, as far humans go. He had the useful habit of scratching behind my ears when I appeared beside him. He also seemed to possess a functioning sense of hearing, which was more than I could say for most humans.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

I had important work to do.

The house had secrets. Old secrets. The sort of secrets that gathered dust in corners, crept through cracks in the walls, and occasionally made the temperature drop so dramatically that even the humans noticed.

My job was to keep an eye on things.

The humans, unfortunately, kept getting in my way.

I initially met Will and Emma during the afternoon tour. I strolled into the dining room, stretched my front paws, and arched my back until every hair was in its proper place.

The tour guide introduced me as the official cat of the inn.

Official. As if I’d applied for this position.

I was the only employee who understood the building’s full history, had no interest in tips, and could nap through an entire shift without anyone questioning my work ethic.

The guide explained that Lizzie Borden had loved animals and left money for their care. She’d owned a cat like me, named Blackie.

I paused beside Will.

He bent down and rubbed my ears. I stared into his eyes.

He blinked.

I did not.

It was important to establish certain boundaries early.

Then the guide began describing the murders.

There was a great deal of talk about old soup, a hatchet, and the number of blows inflicted on various body parts. Humans had an alarming fascination with the details of other humans’ misfortunes. I preferred a simpler approach to history: If something had happened before I was born, I considered it ancient and therefore beneath my immediate concern.

Usually. There were exceptions to every rule.

This house was different.

The air had begun to stir around the old stories again. I could feel it in my whiskers. Something was shifting, waking, remembering.

I glanced toward the basement stairs.

Not yet, I told myself.

The humans weren’t ready.

They rarely were.

That evening, Will and Emma settled into the Hosea Knowlton room on the third floor. Emma admired the antique furniture and discussed Mr. Borden’s miserly habits.

Will admired Emma.

Will admired Emma a lot.

I’d seen this sort of thing before. Humans looked at each other as if they’d discovered the moon. Then they spent the rest of their lives arguing over whose turn it was to take out the trash.

Still, there was something sweet about the way he watched her. He wanted to ask her an important question. I could tell by the way he kept reaching into his pocket and then thinking better of it.

A ring, perhaps?

Humans love shiny objects almost as much as cats do, although they generally lacked the good sense to bat them under furniture.

Just as Will appeared ready to speak, Marge poked her head through the doorway.

Marge was one half of a retired couple traveling with her husband, Harry. She had the energy of a squirrel who’d found an unattended bird feeder. Harry mostly watched her with a fond expression and an occasional twitch of amusement.

I suspect he took out every bag of their trash.

Marge interrupted Will’s almost-proposal to announce that they would be attending a ghost hunt in the basement.

Will’s expression suggested he would rather be buried in it.

Emma’s said she’d happily lead the procession.

I sighed.

The basement was no place for people who couldn’t distinguish between a draft and a spirit. It was also no place for people who thought a flashing gadget could tell them everything they needed to know.

Still, if they were going down there, I would have to follow.

Someone needed to supervise.

At nine o’clock, the humans gathered in the cellar. Shawn, the paranormal investigator, carried a device that blinked and beeped as though it were having a small electrical crisis.

He held it near the old laundry basin.

The air grew cold.

I sat in the shadows and watched their breath turn pale in the dim light.

“There,” Shawn announced. “The spirits are active tonight.”

Humans were very good at announcing things they didn’t understand, and the paranormal investigator was no exception; however, he did know more than most on this subject, I’ll give him that.

Will bent to scratch my head. I stepped between his legs and brushed against his ankle.

He looked down at me as if he sensed something unusual. Good. Perhaps there was hope for him.

Then Harry peered into the basin and announced that he could see nothing but spiderwebs.

Exactly.

The important things were never where humans expected them to be.

I slipped behind a stack of tools and listened. The wall beneath the basin was old, the bricks crumbling. Somewhere behind it, something waited.

I had heard the faint scratching for years.

I had also heard the other sound.

A meow.

Not mine.

Mine was a perfectly respectable sound, used to request food, open doors, and remind humans that I had not been fed in the last several minutes. This meow was different. It seemed to come from everywhere at once, a thin, lonely sound that made the fur along my spine rise.

Blackie.

Or what remained of him.

I padded along the shelf and watched as the humans crowded around the basin. Shawn declared that something was hidden in the wall. Will insisted he could hear scratching. Emma warned them all not to touch anything.

At last, someone had suggested something sensible.

Naturally, they ignored her.

Shawn wedged a laundry paddle into the gap and he and Will pried at the basin until the old structure shifted. Dust floated through the air. Mortar crumbled. A brick came loose.

Behind it lay a metal box.

I sat down.

Finally.

It had taken them long enough.

The box was placed on a nearby table. Harry found a screwdriver, and Shawn began to lift the lid.

Emma suggested they call the authorities first.

This was the most intelligent thing anyone had said all evening.

Shawn refused.

Apparently, years of ghost hunting had taught him patience, caution, and respect for evidence—but none of those qualities could compete with the possibility of opening a mysterious box.

The lid came off.

Inside lay the small skeleton of a cat, curled atop a folded piece of yellowed paper.

For a moment, nobody spoke.

Sometimes humans knew when to be quiet.

I looked at the bones. I had known they were there, of course. I had been keeping watch over that hidden place for as long as I could remember. The little spirit had never gone far from the box. Sometimes I heard him in the night. Sometimes I felt him brush past me, colder than winter air.

He had been waiting.

The paper was unfolded, and Shawn read the heading.

“Confession of Lizzie Andrew Borden.”

The humans stared at one another.

I licked at a cobweb that dared to fall on my paw. Must look presentable for the revelation.

It was about time.

Emma read the confession aloud. Lizzie had hidden her beloved pet in the cellar because she couldn’t bear to leave him behind when she moved to Maplecroft. She had also written down the truth about the murders: the poisoning, the planning, and the role of Dr. Bowen.

The humans gasped at all the right places.

They were particularly interested in the doctor’s involvement. I was more interested in the cat.

Poor Blackie.

Imagine being loved enough to be hidden in a box, then forgotten for more than a century. Humans had a peculiar way of showing affection.

As Emma continued reading, the temperature dropped again. The candlelike glow of the overhead light flickered. A soft sound drifted through the cellar.

“Meow.”

Not mine.

Marge clutched Harry’s arm.

Harry stopped pretending he wasn’t frightened.

Shawn stared at his device as if it might explain why the dead cat was making noises.

Will squeezed Emma’s hand.

And I watched the shelf.

Two iridescent eyes shone in the darkness.

Blackie was there.

He looked just as he had in life: small, with a coat of shiny ebony fur, and entirely unimpressed with the living. His gaze moved from the humans to the open box, then settled on me.

I dipped my head.

He dipped his.

Some things didn’t need explaining.

The humans finally began to understand that the house had given them more than a good story to tell at breakfast. They had found a confession that could change what people believed about one of the most famous murders in American history.

They were still arguing about what to do next when Will turned toward the shelf.

“You knew,” he whispered. “You always knew.”

I flicked my tail.

Well, yes.

I was a cat. I knew when a cupboard was opened three rooms away. I knew which floorboards creaked, which guests sneaked snacks after midnight, and which humans were about to sit on me without looking.

A secret buried in a wall was hardly a challenge.

Emma followed Will’s gaze.

“Who are you talking to?”

“The cat.”

She looked at the shelf.

“I don’t see a cat.”

Of course she didn’t.

Humans saw what they expected to see. They came to a haunted house hoping for ghosts, but they wanted those ghosts to behave in a tidy, understandable fashion. They wanted proof, preferably with flashing lights and a dramatic noise.

Blackie and I had no intention of accommodating them.

He gave me one last look, then faded into the shadows.

I remained on the shelf, perfectly visible to anyone who had the sense to look.

Will stared at me.

I stared back.

Then I yawned.

The humans had their confession. They had their mystery. They had enough excitement to keep them talking for the rest of their lives.

And Will still had a ring in his pocket.

I hoped he’d manage to propose before another human interrupted him. It was exhausting watching them try to accomplish simple tasks.

As the group climbed the stairs, I followed at a leisurely pace.

There was work to do in the morning. Breakfast would be served, and I had a reputation to maintain.

Besides, the house was quiet again.

Almost.

From somewhere deep within the cellar came one final, faint meow.

I paused on the stairs and listened.

Then I continued upward.

I didn’t believe in ghosts.

But I knew one when I heard him.