A little farther down the hallway is Dad’s third bedroom. If I weren’t on a mission, I might just sneak in there and nose around, but I also kind of feel like if Dad hasn’t let me in there, maybe I’m not meant to see what’s behind the door.

Carefully, I slide out the front door before I have the chance to think too seriously about the fact that I’m sneaking out in the middle of the night. On the one hand, I feel pretty dang cool, but on the other hand, it kind of freaks me out. Like, what if I’m kidnapped and my parents just think I disappeared?

The streetlamp on the corner flickers before shutting off for the night. I check the mail, holding Miss Flora Mae’s key close to my chest as I run up her sidewalk and onto her shadowed porch.

I don’t believe in monsters. I don’t believe in monsters. I don’t believe in monsters. I don’t believe in monsters. I don’t believe in monsters.

I’ve never bought into Oscar’s theories about Miss Flora Mae, but somehow the wind is howling louder than it should and the porch is creaking with every breath I take and I can’t help but feel like I am definitely on an episode of America’s Most Haunted and somewhere out there Cliff VanWarren is narrating my every move.

No matter how steady I make my hand, I can’t seem to get the key in the hole just right. “Come on,” I mutter, not willing to look over my shoulder behind me into the dark, whistling wind.

I may not believe in monsters, but I can think of about a billion other things I do believe in. Ghosts, aliens, wild animals, kidnappers . . .

The lock clicks, and short-lived relief washes over me as I step into an even deeper darkness. For a moment, I fumble around, sliding my hands up the walls, looking for a light switch. I run headfirst into what I hope is a lamp and not a dead body just chilling out in the middle of Miss Flora Mae’s house for no suspicious reason at all. I pat down the lamp/possible dead body until— “Aha! Let there be light!”

I clap my hand over my mouth, muffling my own scream as my eyes focus on the hissing cat resting on the mantel above the fireplace.

Miss Flora Mae never said anything about a cat!

“Kitty?” I ask very quietly. “Kitty?”

Slowly I approach the Maine Coon cat with a fluffy tuft of white fur around its neck. When it doesn’t move, I reach out to touch its paw, prepared to haul butt back to my dad’s house. If I die in this house, the only thing Oscar will say at my funeral is, “I told you so.” And he won’t be wrong.

With one eye closed, I bring my hand down on the cat’s very matted paw. “Here, kitty, kitty.”

I hold my breath for a whole two seconds . . . and nothing. Not a dang thing happens. Stepping a little closer, I see a small gold plaque that reads RIP Bette Davis the Cat, 1998–2014.