The Johnson family pulled up to their new house hours before their furniture did. Ms. Johnson pulled the van up outside the two-story home. It had a healthy yard and a fresh coat of paint, and it held its ground quite nicely against the rest of the houses on the street. The windows stood dark and vacant, with one to the left of the front door left open, a slight breeze causing the curtain inside to shiver.
“Well, we’re here kids,” Mr. Johnson said. Two out of three of the Johnson children turned toward the house. “Sarah, stop texting your girlfriend for five minutes. This is a big moment.”
Sarah put down her phone and gazed at the house with all the excitement her adolescent face could muster. “Yay.”
The rest of the Johnsons, blessedly free of the fetters of puberty, were not put off. They piled out of the car to better admire their new home. Mr. Johnson, hands on his hips, nodded up at the house as if he’d built it himself. “Looks good. But it still needs a final inspection.” Turning back to the car, he retrieved a blue pet carrier. He held it up so the metal grated door faced the house. “What do you think, Waffles?”
The cat did not comment on the house. He stared into its empty eyes. They did not blink. Neither did Waffles.
Mr. Johnson marched up the driveway, the rest of the family following. He stopped by the front door, setting the pet carrier down. He examined the window screen for a moment before giving it an experimental push. It slid open with minimal effort.
“We’ll have to keep that in mind when we move in,” Mr. Johnson said, leaning down to open the pet carrier. “We don’t want someone breaking in through this window.” Taking Waffles into his hands, Mr. Johnson held the orange tabby up to the open window. “You’re up, buddy.”
Waffles paused for a moment, nose pulsing with the unfamiliar scents in the air. Then, without so much as a meow goodbye, he leapt through the open window.
Other than the light slanting in through the window, the front room was largely dark. Waffles tipped his mouth open, the better to smell with, as his slit pupils grew into saucers, the better to see with. Ears erect and on a swivel, he began to take in the new environment. This front room was largely empty, minus a fireplace built into the far wall, which would have been difficult for the previous owners to take with them. Motes of dust slid through the sunlight on their way to the floor. Waffles pushed his whiskers forward, hoping for a bug, but was disappointed.
Finding this room largely uninteresting, Waffles padded further inside. There was a bathroom, sans window, which sat in darkness deeper than the first room. Waffles poked his head inside but soon retreated. There as no toilet paper roll to unwind.
The next room appeared to be a kitchen with a connected dining area. The windows on this side of the house weren’t blocked by curtains, and plenty of light poured in. The space had a peaceful, if empty, blue tint to it.
Waffles immediately hopped up on the counter. He looked out the window—the backyard was promising, but it would have to wait for more thorough investigation. The ginger tabby padded near-silent to the sink. He tilted his head at the stainless steel structure. He patted the small lever to the side of the faucet to no effect. Waffles let out a mournful meow, then remembered he was the only one in the house. He would have to wait to try the water.
Abandoning the sink, he spent a few minutes pawing open the various cabinets. There were no sound dampeners installed on the doors, and they closed with a solid slam. It would be useful for gathering people’s attention.
Returning to the front room, Waffles examined the stairs leading to the second level. His eyes grew into saucers once again as he detected movement. He crouched, butt wiggling in anticipation and preparation. He glided up the first few steps, froze. A few more steps to the landing. Pause for more butt wiggles. Then, in a flash, Waffles launched himself forward. It was a narrow miss. Paws and claws scrambling over wood, Waffles went for a second attack. The beetle, moments before blissfully unaware of the fear of death, went flying as an errant claw struck its shell. Waffles’ whole body was buzzing. He had never felt so alive.
The beetle hit the wall with an anemic tap. It landed on its back, legs pedaling through the air. Waffles watched for a moment. When the beetle failed to regain its footing, Waffles waddled forward and tapped it with a paw. It skittered across the landing like one of the pucks the youngest Johnson child liked to hit with a stick.
This time the beetle did manage to get back on its feet. Unfortunately, there was no cover to be had on the landing, and Waffles was already moving in for the kill. The apex predator came down on the beetle with all ten pounds of its body. The hard black shell disappeared under fuzzy feet. Waffles waited a moment, then lifted his paws. The beetle was still twitching. He smacked it again. And again. For the sake of brevity, the smacking continued until there was no more twitching to be had. Waffles spent a minute staring at the corpse of his victim before turning to head up the stairs.
The first room on the second floor was another bathroom. This one was larger than the first and had a small window peeking out. There was still no toilet paper, but Waffles was able to get this faucet running, and he spent a good few minutes lapping at the water.
The next couple of rooms were empty, vacuum treads still visible in the carpet. Waffles inspected it carefully for more beetles, but there were none.
The final room Waffles came to had an old set of wooden-slat closet doors, one of which was cracked open. A rather unpleasant smell leaked from the opening. Waffles wrinkled his nose. He would not be opening his mouth (the better to smell with) in here. He padded across the carpet, keeping his eyes on the darkened crack. Heavy sunlight pervaded most of the room, making it difficult for Waffles’ eyes to adjust. His ears covered the deficit, picking up a faint scratching from inside the closet.
Waffles moved forward, tilting and bobbing his head, trying to get a look at the source of the scratching. Something began to pull the closet door open from the inside. Waffles froze. An eye was staring back at him, heavily bloodshot. It bobbed in a mass of dark, viscous liquid. Square, white teeth floated beneath the eye, only in the loosest line of a mouth. The bulk of the shape appeared amorphous in the dark. It released a low, guttural sound that Waffles could not understand.
The tabby closed the gap to the closet. The eye followed Waffles’ progress. A tentacle-like shadow slid across the floor. Waffles raised a paw. He looked at the eye. The eye looked back. Neither blinked.
Smack, smack, smack. A little orange paw shot out at the eye, freshly sharpened claws hitting their mark. The eye was more blood than ‘shot now, and the shape released another moan, this one sounding more like defeat. Waffles watched as the shadow shrank in on itself, teeth and eye swallowed by darkness. Soon all that was left was an empty closet, floor slightly stained, remnants of an unpleasant odor in the air. Waffles huffed in displeasure at the persisting scent before leaving the room.
The Johnsons had been waiting on the front porch for forty minutes. Sarah had continued texting her girlfriend, ignoring her siblings who tried to cajole her into playing with them. Mr. and Ms. Johnson looked out over the neighborhood, trying to guess what their new neighbors would be like. They were interrupted by a mewling from the other side of the front door.
Mr. Johnson pulled out the keys and opened the door. “There you are Waffles. Is everything up to standard?” Waffles gave a single blink before walking back towards the kitchen.
“Why do we have to wait for Waffles to inspect the house?” the youngest Johnson asked as the family finally breached the entrance.
“It’s an old superstition,” Ms. Johnson explained. “It’s supposed to be good luck.”
“How is it good luck?”
“It just gives Waffles a chance to hunt for bugs before the movers start clomping around,” Sarah cut in, not looking up from her phone.
The youngest Johnson wasn’t able to respond, as a loud banging started up from the back of the house.
“Looks like Waffles has something to show us,” Mr. Johnson said. “Let’s see what he found.”