For the past few months, I’ve been feeling like someone—or something—has been following me. It started subtly: lights I was sure I’d turned off were still on, and doors I thought I’d closed were slightly ajar. At first, I chalked it up to my imagination, but then I began hearing noises.

Even though I live alone, I occasionally heard faint sounds coming from upstairs. I tried to dismiss it, but last week, I noticed muddy tracks leading from the back door to the kitchen. I wasn’t sure what to think.

Then, yesterday, things escalated. I came home from work to find my living room rearranged. The coffee table had been moved, and the books on my shelf were in a different order. I was terrified. I locked myself in my bedroom and called the police.

They arrived and conducted a thorough search but found nothing. As they were leaving, one officer paused and said, “Ma’am, there’s no sign of a break-in, but… I think I know what’s happening.” My heart raced as he leaned in and asked, “Have you checked on your cat?”

That’s when it hit me. My cat—the little whirlwind who loves knocking over books, dragging muddy shoes around, and flipping light switches like it’s her job. Mystery solved. I’m just living with a furry agent of chaos.