I never believed in hauntings ‘til the day my cat came back from the dead. Now, before you start rollin’ your eyes, let me just say, you don’t know Rufus.

Rufus was a devil in fur britches. Big as a bowling ball and twice as loud. He had a screech that could curdle cream, a temper that’d shame a Baptist preacher, and a habit of swatting anybody who came near my potted ferns. Still, I loved him like kin, which, in my family, is saying something, because kin are usually the ones causing trouble.

Now, last March, poor Rufus met his end under Harold Dunn’s pickup truck. (Yes, that Harold Dunn. The tomato thief from up the road. There’s always a Dunn involved when things go sideways in Piedmont.)

Anyway, I buried Rufus myself, right behind the azaleas, with a nice box, a little prayer, and one of those dollar-store solar lights so I could find him at night.

But wouldn’t you know it, two nights later, I woke to the sound of claws on my window screen. Scratch, scratch, mrrrow. I sat straight up in bed and hollered, “Rufus, if that’s you, go toward the light!”

Didn’t help none. The scratching went on for weeks. Every blessed night at the same hour, every time from that same window. I tried peppermint oil, prayers, and a rolled-up copy of the Piedmont Journal. Nothing worked.

Now, the thing about Piedmont is, no mystery stays private for long. By the time I’d told one neighbor, the whole town knew I was being haunted by my cat. Reverend Tucker came by with his Bible, Sister Mozelle brought holy water she’d ordered off the internet, and Harold Dunn, feeling guilty for obvious reasons, offered to “exorcise” the place with a twelve-pack of Bud Light.

I declined.

But they all came out anyway, forming a half-circle around the azaleas like it was Judgment Day. Reverend Tucker read a verse, Lou waved her holy water (which smelled suspiciously like Lemon Pledge), and I stood there holding a framed picture of Rufus like a widow in a soap opera.

Then the bush moved.

Everybody gasped. Out stepped Rufus, or something that looked an awful lot like him. Tail high, eyes blazing, fur a little patchy but spirit entirely unbroken.

I fainted dead away.

When I came to, Rufus was lapping up Sister Lou’s holy water, and Harold was hollering, “I told y’all! Zombie cat!”

Turns out, Rufus hadn’t died at all. The box I buried was empty. Harold’s dog had drug it off before I ever filled it, and the rascal cat must’ve wandered off for a few days, sulking. Probably staged the whole thing for attention.

Still, the story grew in the telling. By week’s end, folks were saying Rufus rose from the grave to atone for his sins, that he prowls the graveyard on full moons, and that if you look in his eyes too long, you’ll remember something you wish you could forget.

I let ‘em talk. Makes for good company at the Huddle House.

And every time someone asks, “Birdie, did your cat really come back from the dead?” I just sip my tea, smile sweetly, and say, “Honey, in Piedmont, some things just won’t stay buried.”

*****

New Yesterdays is available through the following links: Books-A-Million, Barnes & Noble, and Amazon as well as your favorite bookshops. The Audiobook is available from Libro.fm, as well as Amazon.