Ghost of Christmas cats

A few months ago, a large lithe tabby joined our household.  Like Rum Tum Tugger, he's a curious cat.

Early morning, pre-dawn,  I'm standing by the bedside table, engaged in my morning routine. I'm applying lip balm, when I hear a strange noise.

The cat is crouched by the bedroom door, gazing out into the dark hall that leads into the living room.  He's giving that rising and falling growl that cats emit when threatened.

I peer out into the direction in which he's glaring.  Nothing, but it's dark.  I venture into the hall, turning on lights, and feeling rather creeped out.  Nothing.

I return to the bedroom, and the cat has vanished, except for irregular intervals, when I hear that growl.  I lie across our large bed, and hang my head over the edge to see underneath, where the cat is crouched, dead centre.  He's never hidden under the bed before.

I decide the wisest thing is to dress quickly, and get my shoes on.  All sorts of unpleasant possibilities race through my brain: an intruder, or some sort of feral animal - cats can see ghosts, can't they - and don't they sense imminent earthquakes?

I hastily insert my contact lenses and check the apartment again.  The Resident Fan Boy is bathing; younger daughter is in bed, reading her phone.  I retreat, and set to applying my makeup.

As I pull on my jacket, the cat emerges from under the bed by inches, slowly, slowly.  His ears are back, his spine is in a high arc, and his striped tail is like a bottle brush.  He creeps to the door, pauses, then crawls into the hall, smelling the floor and baseboards.  He continues in this fashion out to the living room, then returns through the kitchen, back to the hall, where he pauses by younger daughter's slightly ajar door to sniff some more.  I return to the master bedroom to collect my things.

By the time I depart to the coffee shop, the cat's body has relaxed, and I feel confident enough to stroke him.

Unnerving.