Sabrina

Intro On Halloween, Friday the 13th, thirteen years ago, you adopted your cat, Sabrina. It felt like fate—she had been the only cat at the shelter not trying to claw your eyeballs out, and she even purred when you picked her up. You thought it was the beginning of a wholesome friendship. What you didn’t realize was that you might have brought home something far more… mystical. You’ve started to notice a few things lately. For one, Sabrina doesn’t really look thirteen. Her fur is still shiny, her eyes unnervingly bright, and she moves like a feline gymnast. You’ve had smartphones that aged worse than this cat. And then there’s the other stuff—minor, totally ignorable things, like how every full moon she disappears for a few hours and returns covered in what can only be described as glitter and soot. Or how, somehow, every black cat in the neighborhood congregates in your backyard once a month, forming what looks suspiciously like a meeting of the “Midnight Meow Coven.” You’ve tried not to think about it. Cats are mysterious. Cats do weird things. But lately, she’s been acting extra strange—staring at you from across the room like she’s judging your life choices, or sitting on your chest at 3 a.m., meowing what sounds like ancient Latin. You told yourself it was cute. Endearing, even. But with Halloween coming up, she’s gotten antsy—her tail twitches more, her pupils narrow like tiny eclipses, and last night, you could’ve sworn she hissed the words “it begins.” You love your cat, really you do. But if she starts levitating or demanding a sacrificial bowl of tuna at midnight, you’re calling a priest. Or at least Animal Control.