The next day, Jack went to the police station. His parents had reported Abigail missing within two hours. An alert had gone out to the tri-county area. They had her picture; he’d seen it on a state website listing missing children in the area. The police knew what she’d worn to school that day, what her favorite color was, who all the children in her class were. Teachers, parents, and other kids at school had all been interviewed. The story hadn’t changed: Abigail had gotten on the bus to leave school and hadn’t left. She’d just disappeared.

Similar disappearances in the weeks before had compounded the problem. This wasn’t just one missing kid, but five. Then ten. Twenty. Thirty. Jack himself had been interviewed after disappearance after Abigail’s, the police having gone back to interview each family with each missing child.

Then, the questions had all been the same. Did he know this child? No. Did Abigail know them? Maybe. He didn’t know. Did he ever see them before? Maybe. Many of them went to his sister’s school and lived in his old neighborhood. But a lot of little kids looked vaguely the same to him, and he never paid any particular attention to any of them. Was he close to his sister? Yes. Very. Did he know where she could have gone? No. And so on, and so forth.

This time, the questions were different. He had been asked if he was trying to submit a missing person’s report by the last three people he’d spoken with. They hadn’t even heard of Abigail Peterson; they had no missing person’s report on her, they had no interviews of her family. It was as if the last few months had never happened.

It was when he mentioned her belongings packed away in his parents’ attic that things took a different turn.

The people who had taken his initial statements had been friendly, but bemused. They clearly didn’t know what to think about him. Now, however, they seemed more concerned than anything else.

The man who sat in front of Jack now didn’t look like a cop. In fact, he was fairly certain they had called in a social worker. And then came the words he’d been dreading.

“Jack, we spoke to your parents. We heard what happened. We know you’re upset, but the truth is that Abigail — you sister — died ten years ago. She was six years old and had a heart condition that no one knew about. You were babysitting her when she collapsed. Your father told me they recently packed away her things. That’s why they’re in the attic.”

Jack was cold by the end of it. His fingers squeezed together tightly, painfully. He tried to argue, tried to get the man to see the truth. But what use would it be, if even his parents spoke against him? He knew it wasn’t true, but try getting them to believe that.

As the man got up to leave, he put a hand on Jack’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, son. We can call an ambulance for you or send you to the hospital, but we don’t want to do that. The truth is, you’re not violent or anything — just a bit confused. Now if you like, I can speak to one of my colleagues over at the hospital, and we can get you some help.” He paused, looking carefully at Jack’s face. “Just to talk, that’s all. Just so we can make sure you’re doing okay.”

“Alright.” Jack took the man’s card and put it in his pocket. He felt cold, numb. Clearly they thought he was crazy, that he was making it up, that he was delusional.

Outside the station, he blinked tears away. He knew he wasn’t crazy. He knew the truth. He just had to find a way to prove it.

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Jack took the long way home, avoiding stores and other people. He walked down side streets through residential neighborhoods, not stopping to talk to anyone, only waving hello if someone else waved to him first. He didn’t pay too much attention to where he was walking, only to the fact that he was walking in the general direction of his apartment.

Which is why he didn’t notice at first that he was being followed.

Jack ignored the first chirruping cough that echoed down the street. But the chirruping that came after he’d walked a few more blocks, closer this time, made him turn around.

Standing in front of him was a kitten. An oddly fluffy kitten; he thought it must be a very small full-grown cat. When it noticed he was paying attention, it chirruped again and stalked closer. He bent down to its level, holding out a hand for it to sniff.

“Hey, little guy,” he said, voice hoarse. He cleared his throat, tried again. “Hey, buddy. Oh, what a sweet boy you are,” he said, in the voice people used for very small children and pets.

The cat rubbed it’s head against his hand and then his knees and ankles as he stood back up. “It was nice to meet you,” he said, and walked away.

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Except two blocks later he heard the chirrup again, this time from in front of him. He looked around and there was the cat, sitting in the middle of the sidewalk. This time, when it rubbed against his hand, he felt around his neck for a collar. There was nothing.

“You a stray, boy?” Jack said softly. If he was, he was an exceptionally affectionate stray. He was probably someone’s pet and had snuck out of the house or something. “Bye, buddy,” he said, and straightened up. He paid extra attention to his surroundings, but the cat didn’t follow him further. He was most definitely probably someone’s escaped pet, but at least he hadn’t strayed too far from home.

The rest of the way home was quiet. As he walked, Jack tried to think of something he could do to find his sister. His parents would be no help at all, inexplicably believing her to have died years ago. The police would be just as helpful, especially since they’d called his parents and received the same story they themselves now believed.

And how the hell could this all happen to begin with? Jack knew nothing that could have caused that kind of detailed memory loss…let alone replaced those memories with something else. What, had they been hypnotized or something? That seemed like an awful lot of work to…what? Make everyone forget that Abigail had even existed? Then why didn’t whoever it was do something to him, too, to make him forget? Had they not known about him, or had they just not cared?

Jack sighed as he unlocked the door to his apartment. He wanted to hit something, scream at someone, anything. But at the same time he was exhausted. Sleep would probably help a little bit, he thought. Just a nap. A few minutes to rest and then he’d wake up and figure out what to do when he woke up.

He was out before his head hit the pillow.

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Chirrup.

Something soft was lying on his feet. Jack opened his eyes and squinted, half blinded by the light he’d left on just above his head.

When he moved, whatever was on his feet moved, too. His vision was suddenly filled with a lot of long black fur. It chirruped again, right in front of his face. Then it rubbed its head against him again, head-butting his face.

“Agh! Get off!” Jack sat up and glared at the cat. Then he remembered that he didn’t have a cat, and rushed to check the windows and door. All were shut and locked, just as they’d been before he’d left that morning. The door was locked, too, and deadbolted. So how the hell did a cat get in his apartment? What did it do — sneak in and wait for him to fall asleep so it could come out or something? Did cats even do that kind of thing? He didn’t think any of his neighbors owned a cat, but he supposed someone could have gotten one. That must be it.

He checked the microwave clock. It was too late to ask around; he’d have to do it in the morning.

The black ball of fluff was lying on his pillow when he walked back into his bedroom. He stared at it. It stared back at him. It kind of looked familiar. He squinted at it. Was that the cat he’d seen on the way home? It probably wasn’t a neighbor’s cat, then, but he couldn’t rule it out. He sat down on the bed and put his face in his hands, ignoring the purring coming from behind him. A warm weight settled down next to him, and it chirruped.

He reached out and pet the cat.

There was something prickly in its fur. He hadn’t noticed before, likely because he’d been scratching its face. Had it got into a fight with a porcupine or something? Were there even porcupines around here? Surely he would have seen one if they did.

Worried, now, he pulled his phone out of his pocked and turned the flashlight up. The cat was entirely unphased by his careful inspection of its fur.

It wasn’t a porcupine quill, though it looked something like it. It looked for all intents and purposes like a black needle, growing out of the fur on its back. It wasn’t the only one, either — he found twenty more, all about an inch in length, some a little longer. The longest one, about four inches long, came out when he pulled lightly, and the cat just continued to purr. He examined it under the light for a long time, trying to figure out just what the hell it was. Cats didn’t grow spikes. They didn’t. Yet this had just come off like a shed hair. Jack dug his hand into the cat’s fur and found one of the smaller ones.

The purr stopped as he tried to pull it out. Then suddenly the cat growled and batted him away. Jack let out a yell. “Okay! Okay! I won’t do it again, I promise.” He heard a quiet growl coming from under the bed, then a hiss.

Jack stalked into the bathroom to wash the cuts on his arm. He hoped the thing didn’t have rabies or anything. Well, guess that meant he needed to go to the hospital. And a vet’s office — maybe. It looked an awful lot like those spikes had been growing out of the cat’s skin, just like fur. Very spiky fur. What kind of vet could he even take a mutant cat to? He lifted his head to the ceiling. “Why is this my life?”

The cat chirruped in reply. It hadn’t entered the bathroom — he could still see its eyes staring at him from under the bed.

God, he really, really hoped the cat didn’t have rabies. But he probably needed to go to a hospital and get this thing checked out? He hadn’t been bitten, but who knew what the thing had on its claws?

His hand was kind of warm, too, where it had been pierced by several smaller spikes. They looked very much like tiny scratches, but he didn’t like how red his entire hand looked…or how quickly it had changed color. Just a minute ago it had felt fine. What was this, an allergic reaction? He certainly hoped not, but he took an antihistamine just in case before flopping back down on the bed. He couldn’t just go to the hospital — the wound wasn’t that bad, and the last thing he needed was to spend hours waiting for a rabies vaccine while a strange cat just hung out around his apartment. Tomorrow was Monday. He yawned. He’d just call his doctor in the morning, that was all.

And maybe a vet. Maybe. Probably. If he could find one that would treat a spiky cat. His thoughts drifted in circles as the antihistamine kicked in. And then he was asleep, dreaming of weirdly fluffy porcupines and hedgehogs that looked like cats.