During my college years, I spent several summers house-sitting for a family who trusted me to care for their home and pets while they went on their annual vacations. It became a regular arrangement, a quiet respite from my own turbulent family life, and I cherished those weeks as a break from home. I’d had some eerie experiences in their century-old house before, but nothing that scared me enough to quit. The family paid well, and as a student hustling to make ends meet, it was a side job I depended on.
The family would be traveling out of the country for two weeks this time, with limited communication access, which meant I’d be fully on my own if anything went wrong. I’d call the police or one of their relatives in case of an emergency, but otherwise, it was up to me to look after everything. I had a decent amount of experience with pets from my work at an animal shelter, so I felt confident in managing their four cats. They were mellow, independent creatures who liked to keep company in their own quiet way.
For the first few days, everything went smoothly. I settled into their guest room, balancing my classes and cat care, and appreciated being close enough to campus to skip the usual logistics of parking or packing lunch. My boyfriend visited one night, bringing dinner and staying for a few hours of TV and conversation. He’d stayed over a few times before, but this night felt different to him, and he seemed unusually uneasy. His gut feeling, as he put it, was urging him to go home instead of staying. Even as he urged me to go home, something in me resisted. This annual house-sitting gig was my escape from a complicated home life; my only sibling, and best friend, had already moved out to escape the tension, and being back home without them wasn’t the same.
After my boyfriend left, I went about my usual routine: locking up, setting the security alarm, and getting comfortable in bed. Suddenly, the TV flicked on by itself. Surprised, I checked the remote, but it was right where I’d left it on the nightstand. I turned the TV off, only for it to switch back on again almost immediately, this time on a fuzzy, static-filled screen. I unplugged the TV altogether, telling myself it was just a glitch—maybe a side effect of the recent renovations. I tried to settle in on the couch, but I couldn’t shake an uneasy feeling.
The next night, my boyfriend came over again, and I told him about the TV incident. He looked at me with concern, repeating that I should have just gone home. That evening, we were enjoying a movie when I heard it—a soft but distinct sound coming from the basement. It was faint, almost like a baby’s cry. My boyfriend froze, his eyes meeting mine in silent question. My mind quickly flashed to the cats. From my time at the shelter, I knew that cats, especially in distress, could sometimes sound like infants. I mentally counted three of the cats in sight; the youngest, a smaller, energetic tabby, was missing.
With a knot in my stomach, I went downstairs, calling the cat’s name. Sure enough, I found him stuck in the spare room, door closed behind him. I picked him up and returned upstairs, a little rattled but willing to chalk it up as a fluke.
Later that night, as we paused the movie to feed the cats, we heard it again—the same unsettling cry, this time louder, closer, and more frequent. I scanned the kitchen and the living room, half-expecting to find the little tabby caught in another tight spot. My boyfriend stayed behind as I braved the dark, creaky steps down to the basement, the cries growing louder with every step. I called the cat’s name, but as soon as I reached the bottom, silence fell. I searched every corner, under every piece of furniture, but there was no sign of any cat.
I hurried back upstairs, feeling every bit of my fear prickling my skin. My boyfriend was waiting in the kitchen, pale and wide-eyed, surrounded by all four cats. “They came out from the bedrooms as soon as you went down,” he whispered, his voice thick with dread. The realization washed over me: none of the cats had been in the basement at all.
With shaking hands, I gathered my belongings, stuffed them into my backpack, and we both left the house without a word. For the remaining days, I would only return briefly to care for the cats, sticking to the essentials. The thought of that basement haunted me, yet I didn’t tell the family the details, simply informed them that this would be my last time house-sitting.
I still remember calling my sibling on the drive back home, rattled and seeking comfort. It was only then they shared their own chilling experiences in that same house—a secret they’d kept to avoid discouraging me. Now, though, there was no going back. I never returned.