Fur in the Corners
Only the faint echo of unruly lake waves slamming into the wooden boardwalk outside the dark, musty abandoned warehouse made any noise as the Box Ghost floated a few feet up to admire his work. He had spent three days searching–with much frustration–for a new earthly location to haunt and call his own. And now, finally, it was found and complete.
The weathered warehouse itself lied on the very far outskirts of Amity Park, against the surrounding mountains, on a street hardly ever visited by humans anymore. It sat across from other deserted buildings–a ten-story skyscraper of office cubicles, a shut-down deli shop, and a small, recessed pet shop–all with broken windows and looted shelves, and all with distinct signs of the fire that had ravaged the area years ago. The warehouse itself had fared somewhat better. Only the street-side wall had been hit, which only had a melted hole in the corrugated metal among smaller scorch marks.
Inside, the Box Ghost had designed and rearranged things rather nicely for his purpose. All the abandoned boxes of shipments and workdays past had left him practically giddy with excitement and wonder, as if he had struck a huge gold mine. A good portion of the boxes had been fashioned into a cardboard throne–fit enough for a ghost of his stature–while others were stacked neatly into the corner in a sort of fort-alcove design he could hide or relax in. Unknown to other paranormal beings, the Box Ghost had a secret whimsical side which he only let out when was absolutely alone.
And that's what he thought he was. But his reveling was cut short when the sound of the slightest shuffle of boxes broke the rhythm of the water outside and reached his ears. He straightened up in defense and turned as threateningly as he could towards the endless rows of stacked boxes he stowed away as surplus for his ghostly obsession.
The warehouse, although seldom, if ever, visited, was by no means a secure location. Its windows, like its neighbors', were also busted in, there was the hole in the wall, and the only attempt at any security was a measly chain and lock thrown on the doors' handles at the last second. Still, the noise threw the Box Ghost off guard; there was no wind to rattle the boxes, and he had been positive there was no one–dead or alive–on the street.
There it was again! The shuffling sounded more resolute now, enticing the Box Ghost to creep closer and investigate. He floated two rows into his array of cardboard, and turned left towards the street-side wall, preparing himself to round the corner to face his intruder. With a silent huff of his chest, he sprang into view, arms raised and a deep "Beware!" bouncing off the sides of the structure.
The Box Ghost was surprised to see nothing but empty air encompass the space between the rows. But he could still hear the noise of cardboard being pushed lightly around–and a faint…mew?
Without even another moment to blink, a slender body of green translucent fur phased through a box lying at floor level, turned its head toward him, and gave out a firmer meow, baring teeth and all. His intruder was a cat. A ghost cat.
There was a long pause before he spoke again, as if he was talking to an actual potential threat. "I am the Box Ghost! And you, my furry green intruder, have invaded my personal kingdom of corrugated DOOM!"
The cat simply stared wordlessly at him, before she turned back to the boxes and started rubbing her back along the corner edges in content delight, oblivious to his outburst.
"Do not ignore me, my feline foe, for I can wreak havoc and mayhem upon anyone that crosses my path!" He floated down so he was a mere inch off the ground. "You cannot be here. And if you resist, then you shall suffer a fate worse than boxes left in the rain!"
In response, he watched in apprehension as the creature came towards him innocently, slinking her way in between and around his boots as she continued to scratch her back against him, purring ever so slightly. He dropped his arms to his sides, looking defeated and annoyed that the cat refused to listen to him.
He was about to try his luck again with a "Begone!" when another shuffle came from the cardboard boxes, this time smaller and quieter. The cat ran towards the sound and pounced as whatever it was made a beeline for the next row of boxes, only to be stopped dead in its tracks. A few seconds passed, and then the feline turned around to face him, eyes glowing a neon yellow and a ghostly slim tail slipping through her teeth. She licked her chomps clean.
Of course. The warehouse was no doubt littered with ghost mice, which meant bad news for his possessed boxes. The Box Ghost looked resigned at the cat. "Fine. You can stay. But you must keep hunting the mice and keep them away from my boxes!" He began to walk back towards his throne, effectively done with the situation. When he turned around to sit down, however, he was surprised to see that the cat had followed him, looking up at him curiously.
His low voice rose to an impatient pitch. "What do you want?" His eyes followed the furry creature as she trotted to his left. As he did so, he caught sight of the street view through a pane-less window in the wall. The pet shop. That must have been where the cat had come from. He thought about the fire marks lining the exterior and reaching into the store, and the faint sensation of a twinge of guilt and pity pricked at his ghostly core.
He shifted his gaze back down towards the cat, and any remote trace of empathy flew right out the jagged window, being replaced by an intense spike of possessiveness. The cat was sitting coolly in one of the stray open boxes lying haphazardly along the floor, eyes closed and her purring much louder than before.
"No! You cannot sit there!" he pronounced determinedly. "These are my boxes, to be used for doom when I say so! They are not a bed for you to use."
Once again ignored, he got up and drifted towards the inhabited box, picking it up only to be met with a distressed meow, followed by a hiss. Still, he held strong and gave the box a shake. "Give me my box! This is mine!" No budge. With nothing else to do, he reached his hand in behind her back and began to scoop her up.
"AHH!" He dropped the box and sent it with a dull thud to the floor. His forearm burned from the newly inflicted scratch only another ectoplasmic creature could cause. He whipped his head to find that the cat had jumped out of the box, and was now hovering around the corner, the slightest hint of a cower pushing against her back.
"Bad kitty!" A scowl crossed his face as the Box Ghost picked the cardboard back up protectively. He sat back down, cradling it in his arms and thinking. The twinge of guilt was back. The cat didn't have anything. Her home was burned down, most likely along with her past life, and she was eating ghost mice in a warehouse. He looked back up at her. He did have a lot of boxes besides this one…
"Alright. This one can be yours, I guess…" He set the box back down on the ground, this time a little closer to his seat. Holding his hand out openly above it, he waited as the cat gingerly walked back towards him. She tentatively sniffed at his hand, sensing the new resolution of him being friendly to her, before she stepped back into her previously-claimed bed, spinning twice before settling into it. She rested her head on the edge, nudging his open palm to rub her temple.
"I guess I have a cat now…" he mumbled to himself. He stared at her, wondering how long it had been since she had last been stroked behind the ears, how long she had been here, alone. Begrudgingly at first, the Box Ghost smiled to himself. Maybe this was a good thing. Maybe he didn't want to be alone anymore either.
Was asked to write about the Box Ghost...sorry if I got your feels...
(No I'm not.)