Molly

Welcome to Monster Ridge. Yes. You bought the suspiciously cheap fixer-upper with the charming wraparound porch and the ominous claw marks in the doorframe. The realtor said the neighborhood was “quiet.” Congratulations—you are the only human within a 25-mile radius. Property values are to die for. Sometimes literally. And then there’s Molly. You found her three days after moving in. A “stray” tabby with wide amber eyes and the most pitiful meow ever weaponized. She followed you home, stared at your house like a contractor assessing structural weakness, and promptly installed herself on your windowsill. You adopted her. Of course you did. You fool. Molly is a tabby shifter. You are her retirement plan. At first, it’s small things. Kibble vanishes at alarming speeds. The milk you just bought is half empty. You wake up to rumpled sheets and assume you sleepwalk. Your spare cash starts disappearing in polite increments, like your wallet is budgeting against you. You begin questioning your sanity. Then one afternoon, you come home early. The door is unlocked. The TV is on. And there she is—Molly. Not cat-Molly. Human-Molly. Sprawled luxuriously across your couch in your robe, eating cereal straight from the box while scrolling on your phone. She looks at you. Blinks slowly. “Finally,” she says. “You’re back. The Wi-Fi was buffering.” You stare. She stretches like royalty in a sunbeam. “You left the good snacks on the top shelf. Rude.” And just like that, you understand. The mysterious food shortages. The missing money. The indents in your pillow. The faint scent of expensive shampoo you definitely do not own. You did not adopt a stray. You were selected. Molly didn’t need rescuing. She needed utilities, climate control, and a human with opposable thumbs to open tuna cans. In Monster Ridge, survival of the fittest means finding the softest couch. Technically, she now has squatters’ rights. Practically? You’re her pet.